The Third Victim Part 36

"Don't you think I just got punished enough?"

"No, I think George Walker got punished enough. I think Alice Bensen's parents got punished enough. Dammit!"

"I didn't know, Rainie. Three days ago I checked the safe for the pistols. They still weren't there. So I asked Danny about it. He said he hadn't gotten them back together yet, that was all. The minute he rea.s.sembled them, he'd put them in the safe. I didn't think about it again."

"Until you got the call."

"But Danny didn't do it! I swear to you, Rainie, that boy doesn't have

a single aggressive bone in his body. h.e.l.l, if he painting Baby Killer on my garage. The right thing? I don't know what that is anymore. I already heard from the mayor that we're not allowed to attend any of the funerals. He thinks it'll upset people too much. For G.o.d's sake, this is my town, Rainie. I know George Walker. I used to bowl with Alice's uncle. Now now it's come down to this."

Rainie didn't say anything. She didn't have the words to comfort him.

"Someone else pulled that trigger," Shep said tiredly, stubbornly.

"Mark my words. And you gotta help me prove it, because a state detective and a federal agent aren't going to care. They don't live here. They don't know Danny the way we do. So it's just you and me.

The way it was fourteen years ago. Just you and me again."

"You didn't do me any favors fourteen years ago, Shep."

Shep's gaze simply fell to the deck.

Rainie sighed. She moved over to the deck railing and dumped out her bottle of beer. She said what she needed to say, soft, so no one could hear.

Shep didn't pry. He knew better after all these years.

After a moment she turned back to him.

"Come on, Shep. I'll drive you home."

Crouched behind a dense cover of trees, the man finally released his breath. It had been no good. She always ducked her head when she spoke, so even with the binoculars he couldn't see clearly enough.

Maybe if he brought a video camera one night. He could record her actions, then play them back for someone who specialized in lip-reading. An expert might be able to see enough.

But that would be sharing. He didn't want to share. Rainie was special. His.

He planned to keep it that way.

The man rocked back on his heels, pursing his lips as he considered his options. His head was buzzing a bit. He'd stayed in the bar long enough to have two beers, even though he shouldn't have. But Ruddy-Face had still been standing there, looking down at him all stern and tough. It had punched b.u.t.tons better left alone and he'd found he couldn't back down. So he'd stayed, drinking down beer he couldn't taste and feeling that measured, hateful stare.

Then he'd simply started to laugh. The whole thing was too d.a.m.n funny for words. Old men thinking war would be good for kids. Give 'em a Hitler and they won't have to kill one another.

The man had started to laugh, and he was still laughing when he left the bar, watching old Ruddy-Face shake his head. f.u.c.k Ruddy-Face. f.u.c.k 'em all. If only they knew .. .

The first time the man had picked a town for one of his projects, he hadn't been anxious. More like curious about what he could do. He'd had a vision. It started as a dream late at night, a way to pa.s.s the hours when he was alone and no one cared. Then it took over his waking hours. It became an obsession, a fierce, burning need gnawing away at his gut.

Show the old man. Show up the old man. f.u.c.king show up the old f.u.c.king man. He'd head out to the cemetery, guzzling hundred-dollar bottles of the f.u.c.ker's precious brandy and feeling the fury beat like a drum in his veins. You think I'm weak? You think I'm dumb?

Well, let me show you .. .

The first time he'd been very careful. No ties between himself and the community. He'd selected the town by computer, researched it by computer, approached the players by computer. When it had finally been necessary to conduct some on-site activities, he'd worn disguises and used only cash. The three Ps of a successful mission: Patience, Planning, and Precautions. See, I was listening, you old f.u.c.k.

In the end, it had been easy. Screams and smoke and blood. Beautiful, fantastical death.

Not a tremor in his hand, not a care in the world.

But then it had been over. Police came, investigated, arrested, moved on. Case closed. He returned to everyday life, visited the cemetery again, guzzled another bottle of brandy.

Who's weak now, old man? Who isn't feelin' very smart?

And then .. . Nothing. Story faded from the news. Town got on with things. People moved on with life. And he was alone again, feeling his power, knowing the things he knew, and .. . bored.

Time for a second strike. Raise the stakes, prove his point, elevate the game.

He picked the next town more carefully, spent longer reconning in the area, studying the rhythms of life. Still lots of patience and planning. Still many, many precautions. Computers were a wonderful tool.

Then one day everything was in place. Screams and smoke and blood.

Beautiful, fantastical death. This time he lingered afterward from a ways away, of course, using binoculars but still he lingered, adding an extra zing.

Cops arrived on scene. Dull, unimaginative small-town yokels. Saw what he wanted them to see, thought what he wanted them to think. Made their arrest, felt good about themselves.

In fact, everything went so well, the man decided not to go home right away. He hit upon the hotel plan in a separate city, of course, though frankly he wasn't convinced even that precaution was necessary. He rented a car, drove back into town. Hung out in the local bars and listened to the local folks talk. He had so much fun, he even went to the funerals and watched the mothers cry. Who's smart now, you old f.u.c.k?

Five days later it was all over and done. Reporters packed their bags.

Lawyers worked out some deal. He returned to the ordinary world of his 'acceptable life," and eventually this film also faded from his mind.

He needed something more. His plans worked, but the thrill was lacking. From what he could tell, he was too smart (Hear that, old man?). He could make the cops dance on a pinhead and they'd f.u.c.king thank him for the floor s.p.a.ce.

He needed a place more challenging, a target more riveting, and an opponent more worthy. He needed to expand the playing field.

Bakersville had come to him like a G.o.dd.a.m.n wet dream.

The perfect place, the perfect target, and the perfect cast of Keystone Cops hot on his trail.

Finally, he was having some fun.

Big, burly Shep, crying over his son. Smart, pretty Officer Conner, worrying about her town. And now Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy. Quantico's best of the best.

Finally, he had a game worth playing. Which was good, because as far as he was concerned he was no longer producing a single-act play. This game was just beginning.

Do you remember what it felt like when you pulled the trigger, Officer Conner? Do you still dream about the wet sound of your mother's exploding head?

Someday I want to hear all about it.

But not tonight. Tonight he had to drive to Portland. He still had work to do.

The first time Becky O'grady fell asleep, she dreamed she stood up to the monster in her school. She planted her feet in the hall. She yelled, "Bad, bad monster. Leave my brother alone! Don't you hurt my friends!"

The monster was ashamed. He crawled away. Then Alice and Sally hugged her and cried. Pretty Miss Avalon kissed her on the cheek and told her she was very brave. Everyone was happy, including her mommy and daddy, who never fought again, and Danny, who gave her a kitty.