CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Ari leaned out her bedroom window until she could see Lynn’s house. It appeared deserted, doors shut tight, but she knew that inside Colette was wrangling little kids for suppertime and Lynn’s room was empty. Her mom had had dinner on the table early again and the food—pork chops and mashed potatoes—was sitting heavily in her stomach although she had eaten only enough to appease her parents. She looked up at the sky, the specks of birds wheeling far above. She could pretend they were swimmers and she was at the bottom of the pool. Alone, but safe in her element. It was still light but the sun would set in about half an hour, at 6:30. She breathed deeply for a few seconds, and after she’d filled her lungs with that peace, she pulled the sash down, and then the new heavy blinds her father had installed a couple of hours ago.
She turned around slowly. It was shocking how much they blocked the light. Her room transformed, became oppressive, cramped. It felt like the cistern.
Her breathing quickened as she crossed to the bedside lamp she’d kept on, flicked it off, and made her way blindly to the corner by the door.
She sank down, hugging her knees to her chest. Somehow, choosing the darkness now allowed her brain to roam.
It had all begun in the well. She had become a target for someone and they had put her there. She didn’t care what anyone else believed. She knew she was right and she had to confront her fears. The police were doing what they could. Mrs. Lubnick and her parents were taking action, but it wasn’t enough. They didn’t see the big picture. She couldn’t just sit around waiting.
She drummed her fingers against her forehead as if it might loosen the web of her thoughts.
Someone had wanted her dead but she had escaped. Surely they still wanted her dead. Maybe even more now than before. She was a liability. She knew things that were still locked in her brain. That person had Lynn, she was sure of it, tucked away in some hiding place. But perhaps she could draw them out.
Bait. She could be bait.
She inhaled, appalled by what she was thinking but excited too. It was like the moment before she dove into the water, the seconds before the race started. She always knew within a few heartbeats if everything was going to work in perfect rhythm or if it was all going to fall apart.
“Bait and switch” was an expression her mother used laughingly sometimes when describing her cupcake window display. Customers would come in for the sweet treats and leave with a pound of coffee and a decorative mug as well.
Ari could do the same thing, but in reality, she would be the hunter. What did that entail exactly? Making sure she was alone? Walking blindly into dark alleys? She had to do this with her eyes wide open.
She scrubbed at the itchy scab above her ear. The bandage was flapping loose. She peeled it away and prodded the wound. It was healing. It felt crusty but there was no blood. She poked some more and frowned. Had the doctor clipped her hair? No, she’d have remembered that. The sensation of the cold stethoscope traveling over her back was still vivid, the dry, powdery feel of the latex gloves.
She got clumsily to her feet, stumbled over to the bed and switched the light back on, blinking until her eyes adjusted. She had a hand mirror in the drawer, a full-length hanging on her door. She held the hand mirror behind her and aimed it at the side of her head. Carefully she separated a sweaty mat of hair and pushed it aside. Scalp gleamed. She was missing a big chunk.
She recalled her notes on serial killers. How she’d dismissed that research because it was clearly insane and paranoid.
Her thoughts began to hammer her. Trophies. Killers often took trophies from their victims: jewelry, clothing, locks of hair. She pulled the sheaf of notes out from her desk, flipping through them until she found what she was looking for. Serial killers often exhibited warning signs before they began to murder people. Pet killings—check. Arson? Had anyone been setting fires in the area? She woke her computer, first checking her email. Just spam. She entered “Dempsey Hollow arson” in the search engine. A page of entries popped up. She clicked on the top news article and read it quickly. Six mysterious fires in the last two years. Two on State Park land, but the rest within town limits, derelict buildings mostly.
This was real information she could share with her parents. They could take it to the police together. She rose, reached for the doorknob and stopped herself. They didn’t believe her already. They’d never believe this. Would they force her to see a shrink? Would they put her in a hospital if they thought she was really crazy?
She sat back in her chair and then clicked back over to her email. Lynn. Lynn was out of reach but Ari felt like she had to try. She typed:
You’re not dead are you? I can’t bear it.
Ari stared at this line for a long moment as her heart heaved. And then she deleted it and wrote:
I’m going to find you.
She hit Send and then stared at the wall, fingers playing with her bracelet. A knock at her door made her jump. She closed her computer.
“Going to get some rest soon, Ari?” her mother asked, peeking in. Her parents had been tiptoeing around ever since her outburst earlier.
“Yes, soon.”
Her mother crossed the room and fussed with the blinds.
“Your father and I think you should stay home from school tomorrow. Give yourself one more day to rest. I’ll be at work in the morning but I can come back for lunch, and your father can stop in in the afternoon.” She sat down on Ari’s bed, clasping her fingers together. “What do you think?” Scanning Ari’s face, she said hurriedly, “Or I can stay home with you if you’d like.”
A day, basically on her own, would give her time to figure stuff out. She was pretty sure she wasn’t going to get much sleep tonight anyway.
“I think that’s a good idea,” she said slowly. “I’ll be fine on my own though.” She summoned up a weak smile. “I know it’s super busy at the coffee shop.”
“Need anything? Herbal tea? Crackers and cheese?” Ari was relieved her mother hadn’t suggested warm milk, as if she were a bed-ridden invalid.
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
“Okay,” her mother said, somewhat doubtfully. “Try to relax and let your body heal, honey.”
Ari nodded as her mother dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head and left the room. Ari listened to the sound of her footsteps descending the stairs. Closing the door, she scooped up her pillow and stuffed it against the bottom to block the light. Her parents checked on her periodically during the night, but usually they just stood in the hallway for a few seconds listening with an intensity that was tangible.
She splayed her notes out in front of her. She scanned down. She’d underlined the following: Serial killers are 91% male, 54% white, with an average IQ of 113, which put them way above the norm for intelligence. This was not some alcoholic screw-up or skeletal junkie; this was someone who lived in the shadows by choice, a hunter.
What kind of person was she looking for?
Dahmer. Gacy. Bundy. Gein. All predators who hid in plain sight and were part of society. Sourmash had lived totally off the grid and made no attempt to pretend he was anything other than what he was. Maybe she was looking for someone who was the opposite? Pedophiles sometimes worked in jobs that brought them close to children. It was like the witch in the gingerbread house.
It had to be someone who knew things about her and Lynn, their routines, who had used that information to track Ari and then get to Lynn. It had to be someone who saw them regularly.
Bundy had sweet-talked his victims. Charmed them and played with them. He liked to kill college girls and so he hunted them on campus, blending in with the other yuppie jocks.
She slid her chair out, found a notebook and a pen and scribbled down a name. Circled it.
What were her and Lynn’s regular haunts? The bookstore. Ice cream parlor. The park. The school. Who did they see every day? The person she was looking for knew Dempsey Hollow, the grove, the neighborhoods with the most pets, and they were above suspicion. That implied a certain stature in the community. Her pen tapped like a metronome. Or maybe below suspicion. If this was someone who was just starting out on their career path, they could be young. Her own age.
Who did she know who could butcher a family dog? Who seemed capable of acting on morbid thoughts? Had a cruel streak? She wrote down another name and chewed on the end of her hair. She supposed it said something about her that she was writing down the names of possible serial killers living in her town, but she didn’t care—her friend’s life hung in the balance. Wake the fuck up, Lynn seemed to say. This is a sick business. She shook off the guilty feelings and returned to her list.
Many people believed that Jack the Ripper had been a doctor. His kills were so precise, so surgical. Ari considered the local family physician, Dr. Prentiss. He was a white-haired, fluffy, doddering man who gave out lollipops to all the kids no matter what their age, and still handwrote his careful instructions though his fingers shook with tremors. He was barely capable of holding a pen, to say nothing of a knife or a gun. Was it an act? She didn’t think so. She’d heard her mother and Mrs. Lubnick mention Parkinson’s disease and retirement. The pet killings were recent. It made sense to her that the person she was looking for was just starting out and not someone who’d been living here for fifty years. She crossed Dr. Prentiss’s name off and threw down her pen. Dammit. Her brain felt encased in sludge. It hurt to think. Power nap, she thought. I’ll just rest my eyes for a second. She laid her head down on folded arms. Sleep rose up and submerged her like a wave.
Ari jerked awake. Apart from the bedside lamp and the glow from her computer, the darkness was enveloping, the silence so thick she could hear her blood pumping in her temples. The clock on her computer said 3:47 a.m. Monday morning. She hadn’t slept for that many continuous hours since before the cistern. Out of the grogginess a memory sprang to mind, and she fought to capture it before it could disappear back into the murk.
It was three years ago, summertime, and she and Lynn had just finished freshman year. They’d been playing on the street outside Lynn’s house. It was some old-fashioned game and Ari didn’t fully grasp the rules.
“You touched on Wales,” Lynn said.
“Did not,” Ari said, pushing her wet hair off her face. It was boiling hot, and the tree they were using had some kind of fungus that had curled and stripped all the leaves off, so it offered no shade. She shrugged her shoulders, trying to un-stick the back of her shirt. Her shorts kept riding up in a really annoying way.
“Popsicle run?” she suggested.
“Can’t leave,” Lynn said with a sour look. “The Shits.” Lynn’s triplet siblings were seven years old. Thankfully the Littles (Horror, Bother and Monster) were in daycare for the summer.
“Where’s your mom?” Ari asked, flopping down on the edge of the sidewalk.
After a moment, Lynn joined her.
“Work, as usual.” She sounded bitter. This whole summer her mom had either been taking extension classes in admin stuff or putting in major hours at the school, catching up on curriculum. “She’s going for the principal position vacated by our dear, wish-he-was-truly-departed Mr. Oickle.”
A car roared by, barely slowing at the stop sign at the intersection before jetting off down the street. Lynn jerked her head up, looking for her brother and sisters, counting them off one, two, three under her breath. “Stay out of the road, you dingbats,” she called. They had grouped together, shoulder to shoulder, and were staring intently at something just ahead and out of sight. “Get on the sidewalk,” Lynn said, in her “I’m deadly serious” voice. It worked maybe half the time, but not now. They weren’t shifting. Mark still held a branch in his sticky fist and he was pointing it at whatever it was that had grabbed their attention.
Lynn pulled herself to her feet, muttering. Her capris were stuck to the back of her thighs and she walked a little bowlegged as she tried to free the sweat-dampened material. Ari followed her, flapping her shirt to try to get some cool air circulating. A popsicle would taste so good right now. The smallest girl, Nelly, was crying. At their feet was a small brown-striped tabby cat, not much more than a kitten. It lay on its side, ribs heaving, and then suddenly it lurched to its feet, and then flopped back over again. It couldn’t seem to hold its head straight. Lynn cursed and shoved the kids back behind her. She looked up the street where the car had disappeared moments before. “Asshole,” she said. Nelly hid her head in Lynn’s shirt and wailed, “Kitty!”
Ari was mesmerized by the cat, which was doing a weird, disjointed dance, as if it were being attacked by invisible bees. One of its eyes bulged from the socket but there was no blood or anything.
“What do we do?” Ari said, feeling sick.
“Brain injury,” a voice from behind them said. “Car bumper probably clipped it.” A woman with curly auburn hair and a voluminous orange sundress had appeared. Ari looked at her and then looked again. She was a new-that-year teacher from school, she thought. Senior biology? That sounded right.
The woman kneeled down, one hand gripping the kitten by the scruff of the neck and holding it still. “I’m Dr. McNamara.” Ari stared at the cat. It was trying to bite and scratch but Dr. McNamara didn’t even flinch.
“Don’t hurt it,” Lynn said. She and Ari both had tears in their eyes.
Dr. McNamara looked at her without expression.
“I’m trying to help it. See the distended eye? That means there’s pressure building up in the brain.”
Ari made a movement toward her. “It’s suffering.”
“It’s dying,” the teacher said.
“Christina, take the other kids and go in the yard,” Lynn said in a tense voice. For once they listened to her, scurrying across the street and into the yard, where they pressed up against the chain-link fence with transfixed expressions.
Dr. McNamara had shifted her hands; now both were cupped around the kitten’s head. Its ears were completely flattened, and its back legs kicked fruitlessly. And then the woman did something, Ari wasn’t sure what, a quick twist of her fingers. There was a snap like a twig breaking and when she removed her hands the kitten was still. She laid it down at the edge of the road and stood up, brushing her palms against the material of her dress.
Lynn and Ari exchanged horrified looks. Oh my God, Lynn mouthed. Behind the fence, Ari heard Nelly say in a tearful voice, “What happened to the kitty?” and then Lynn had rushed up and hustled them all onto the porch and into the house.
“See you at school,” Dr. McNamara said to Ari and walked away.
Ari drew a continuous circle around Dr. McNamara’s name now as she thought about the teacher. Yes, most serial killers were men, but there was a coldness about her, a lack of emotion. And she had the knife skills and knowledge of anatomy.
Above suspicion, she thought. Or maybe protected from suspicion. She jotted another name down and stared at what she had written so far.
Jesse Caldwell. Completely antisocial. Cold-blooded. Insults, people’s negative opinions just seemed to bounce off him. He could be sociopathic. She remembered the rumors about him cutting that girl’s ponytail off, and he’d been right there at the killing grove. Admiring his work? She underlined his name.
Jack Rourke. He seemed to be heartless beyond the borders of normal high school asshole-ry, and protected to some extent by his cop father. He liked to antagonize, dominate and intimidate. He had always targeted Lynn with taunts and dirty slurs, usually delivered in a quiet voice. Lynn could look after herself, but still, what kind of guy persecuted the only openly gay girl in school? Someone predatory.
Dr. McNamara. Or Mephistopheles, as Lynn liked to call her. She stifled a nervous giggle and chewed her lip.
Still, she had to admit, the list was ludicrous. Nothing she could actually show to anyone. But if she did nothing, Lynn might die. If she did something, perhaps there was a chance. She had to do it.
Three suspects and they could all be found at school on a regular Tuesday.
Next step. What would make the killer reveal him- or herself?
More likely a him, Ari decided. She opened up her computer again and then, gathering her courage, texted to her cell phone. I’m going to find you and then you’re going to pay. With trembling fingers she pressed Send, jumping away from her computer as if it had suddenly turned into a giant spider.
It was an empty promise, but she was so angry that it fueled her courage and determination. It could be enough to make him let Lynn go and stop what he was doing. Maybe he couldn’t operate out of the shadows.
Or maybe it would just shine a big old spotlight on her.