CHAPTER 45

 

Public Safety Office, 5:15 P.M.

 

Until he could be transported to the county jail, Jerald Pope was being held in the conference room. Two deputies were stationed in the room with him, another two outside the office.

Every single piece of evidence they had found was lined up in a neat little row.

The shoe had belonged to Alicia, the glasses to Valerie. The knife and the other items had been covered in Pope’s fingerprints and both victims’ blood.

Too neat.

Sarah stood outside the rear entrance, wishing again she had a cigarette.

Her instincts still leaned toward a female perpetrator. But, of course, no one wanted to hear that. They had their murderer. Sarah, herself, had been forced to admit that it was a man who called her cell phone and then snatched her.

Of course it was a man. He was covering for someone. His wife or his daughter? Sarah’s every instinct insisted that was the case.

Didn’t anyone consider it a little strange that the first two victims were murdered and the last two escaped unharmed?

This was utter and complete bullshit.

She jerked the door open and went back inside.

“Hey, I was looking for you.”

She met Kale’s worried gaze. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

If he asked her that one more time…

“I’m fine. Just…” Why bother even saying anything to him? He was like the others. He wanted this case over.

“Come in here.” He pulled her into the closest office and closed the door. “Talk to me.”

What was the point?

“Come on, Sarah, say what’s on your mind.”

“Don’t you find this all too easy?” She turned her hands up. “The neatly placed evidence. The fact that Polly and I escaped when the other two didn’t. Think about that.”

“Sarah.” Kale leveled a weary gaze on hers. “You can’t seriously think he’s innocent after what they found in that storage unit in Bangor.”

Yeah, yeah. She knew. Twenty perfectly preserved human hearts. “Yes,” she agreed, “he’s a sick monster who obviously killed a whole hell of a lot of people, including the two young women from twenty years ago. I just don’t think he killed Valerie and Alicia.”

The federal authorities were assuming jurisdiction over that aspect of the Pope case. Which was no surprise. August was probably in the men’s room whacking off right now in celebration of the huge case he’d cracked.

“Sarah,” Kale said patiently, “why would he accept responsibility for these two murders? Why would he let himself be caught? No one was ever going to catch him. Don’t you see that what you’re proposing is a little crazy?”

Crazy. Possibly.

“Why would he do that?” Kale asked.

“To cover for someone else. Think about that. That’s not crazy. That’s anything but crazy.” She paced the small room. “The murders were motivated by envy. That’s a very female motivation. The boot print, the propranolol, the roses. None of it is even remotely consistent with his previous MO.”

“August asked him about that,” Kale argued. “He said he’d quit killing a long time ago, but the temptation overwhelmed him and he had to kill again. He changed his MO to try and make it look as if someone else committed the murders. He didn’t say a woman, but that could have been his ultimate intent.”

Sarah wasn’t buying it.

“What blows me away,” Kale went on, “is that he had all that stuff, the tools he used to kill those people, the clothes he wore—all of it—right there in the storage unit. That’s sick.”

666.

The code for his storage unit.

He’s the devil.

… he uses people sometimes as an angel of light to mislead…

The unexplained pieces fell into place and suddenly it all made sense to Sarah. Jesus… Matilda was right.

“I have to talk to him.”

“Whoa.” Kale took her by the shoulders and made her look at him. “You know they’re not going to let you do that.”

Sarah knew what she had to do. “Yes they will.”

She waited for Kale to step out of the way; the instant he did she was out the door. She hunted down August.

“I need to speak with you.” He looked at her, as did Chief Willard. “Privately.”

When he didn’t readily agree, she gave him a look that warned of severe consequences.

“Give us a moment,” August said to Willard.

Kale stood in the corridor watching as Willard exited his office. Sarah didn’t have time to placate him. She closed the door and turned on August. “I want to talk to Pope.”

August smirked. “No way. You know how this works, Sarah. We’re not going to do anything that might weaken or somehow damage our case. He’s off limits.”

“You either let me talk to him or I’ll go outside right now and tell all those reporters how bad you fucked up three and a half years ago.” There wasn’t a day went by that she didn’t remember.

“What would that accomplish?” He tried to pretend she was suggesting an impotent reprisal.

“You made a mistake. You leaked the information about that suspect after I warned you that he was innocent. You ignored me and the facts I presented and, because you did, he was murdered.”

August’s expression hardened. “But we got the bad guy in the end.”

“Yeah,” she confirmed, her jaw tightening, “the bad guy I urged you to consider before anyone innocent was murdered.” She laughed. “Then you took credit for my conclusions.”

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “All right. All right. I’ll give you a minute or two with him.” He shook his finger in her face. “But don’t fuck this up just to get back at me.”

She made a sound of disbelief. “Are you kidding? That’s your MO not mine.”

His glare intensified. “This thing between us is done now. You talk to Pope and then we’re even.”

She nodded. “Absolutely.”

August jerked the door open and cut a path through the people crowding the corridor.

“What was that about?” Kale asked.

Sarah paused, looked into his eyes. “Just trust me.” Then she followed the route August had taken.

When she reached the conference room door, he was ready to let her in. “Remember what I said.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He opened the door and she went inside. “Step outside, gentlemen,” August said to the deputies.

They looked at each other then at Sarah, but they didn’t argue.

Before the door closed Sarah heard Kale demand, “What the hell are you doing?”

August would handle him… for now.

“Sarah.” Pope smiled. “I would stand but—” He pulled at his wrists which were handcuffed to the chair arms.

She dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand, then settled into the chair directly across from him. “I have a few questions for you. Just to satisfy my own curiosity.”

He inclined his head, analyzed her. Looking for the lie, as she so often did. “How can I know that you’re not recording this conversation?”

She stood, peeled off her sweatshirt, and turned all the way around. “No wires.” When she’d faced him once more, she pulled the sweatshirt back on. “Do I need to take off my pants, too?”

A grin lifted one corner of his mouth. “Not necessary. Oddly, I trust you.”

“I’ll bet you do.” She eased back down in the chair.

For a moment they stared at each other, both analyzing.

“How did you manage to kill so many without ever getting caught?” That was a hell of a record. Seemed like a good way to get him talking while at the same time lowering his guard.

“I traveled a lot then. All over the country.” His expression grew distant as he contemplated his past. “I always chose my victim while I was away. Never anyone close to home. And I planned extensively to lessen the likelihood of making a mistake.”

Anyone in the business of murder had to admire a man so precise. “Your victims were random?” With that many murders involving the same MO, one would think the feds would have noticed a connection. Typically when a pattern emerged, comparisons were done among the various jurisdictions.

“Oh, no, you know better than that. A serial killer is never truly random. There is always a distinctly similar motive driven by his compulsion.”

She had known he would understand what he was. “So, how did you choose them?”

“I needed to satisfy the urge, but I didn’t want to eliminate anyone who contributed to society. You never know when someone might turn out to be the one who invents the cure for cancer or who turns around global warming.”

She got it now. “So you selected those who were a burden to society rather than vice versa. Prostitutes, thugs, et cetera.”

He nodded. “Very good, Sarah. You understand me quite well.”

“When did you know you were a serial killer?”

“Aha. The million-dollar question.” He drew in a deep breath. “When I was perhaps seventeen, I began to feel the compulsion to cause pain. It was controllable then. By the time I was nineteen, it kept me from sleeping, haunted my nights ruthlessly.”

“Is that when you started to kill?”

He shook his head. “No, I conquered the demon by spending endless hours planning. I didn’t start killing until a full year later. I decided that if I was going to kill, I would plan the perfect murder.” His lips widened into that charming smile again. “And I did, repeatedly, for the next eighteen years.”

“I’ll bet you had a schedule, too.”

“Absolutely. I was allowed one kill per year.” He paused. “I’m sure you’ve already calculated and understand that eighteen years of killing is not twenty.”

“I wondered if perhaps the two extra murders were the two young women found at the chapel twenty years ago.”

“Those two were a rather unfortunate necessity.”

Sarah didn’t know whether to be surprised or not that he’d just openly admitted to having killed those two women. “I thought you never killed close to home.”

“Never. But I didn’t choose them. They were an unforeseen complication.”

“How’s that?”

“To that point, I had been somewhat careless in storing my memorabilia. I had designed a special storeroom beneath the water at my boathouse. Those two drunken revelers had gotten lost that night. They’d docked at my boathouse and taken refuge inside. When I discovered them early the next morning, they had passed out but it was obvious they had found the entrance to the storeroom. One had even attempted to pick the lock. I couldn’t take the risk that one or both would speak of the strange hidden door they had found.”

“So you killed them, using no particular MO, and left their bodies to be discovered in a public place.”

“Precisely. Such careless mutilation was not my style. But I couldn’t resist taking their hearts.”

“That’s why you moved everything to the storage unit,” she suggested. “I suppose even a serial killer has to do housekeeping from time to time.”

He smiled. “Yes. There were things I needed to get in order. It was unfortunate that two lives had to be sacrificed as a result.”

Unfortunate, yes. Sarah wondered if this man, this being, even had a heart. “Is the number 666 indicative of how you feel about yourself?” That was certainly no coincidence.

He laughed softly. “Don’t doubt my understanding of who and what I am, Sarah. Though I have tried to be a good father and husband, deep down I have always fully comprehended what I am. I chose that code as a sort of irony. So many worry about the devil taking their souls and holding them prisoner in hell. Isn’t that what I’ve done?”

She could see the irony, yes.

“After twenty years,” she redirected, “what awakened the demon?” Two decades of meticulous control and then the man who planned every detail so carefully suddenly gets sloppy? No way.

“The first temptation came in the form of that whore on West Street.”

“Matilda’s mother?” Sarah tensed. Was this what Matilda had been talking about?

“A few years ago she attempted to seduce me in a public place and then blackmail me.” He made a disparaging sound. “It didn’t work, of course.” His gaze locked with Sarah’s. “She has no idea how close she came to being a victim of someone besides herself.”

“But you resisted,” Sarah suggested.

“For the child’s sake.” Jerald shook his head. “In hindsight, perhaps the child would have been better off if I had acted on the impulse.”

Sarah studied him a long moment. “If that was a few years ago, why kill again now? Who pissed you off this time?”

“I believe we’ve reached the end of constructive conversation, Sarah.”

His expression closed as surely as if he’d pulled the blinds or locked a door.

“You’re afraid to talk about it,” she challenged. “Afraid I’ll figure out the truth.”

He leaned forward as far as his constraints would allow. “I know what you’re afraid of, Sarah Newton.”

Tension stiffened her. “How would you know anything about me?”

“I know everything about you. From your humble, gruesome childhood to your boring college days and everything in between and after. Most information about one’s life, every little secret, is easily attained with the proper incentive.”

Fury roared through her. “You’re right,” she agreed. “I do believe we’ve reached the end of constructive conversation.”

She pushed up from her chair and started for the door.

“Don’t worry, Sarah.”

She paused, looked back at him. “What would I be worried about?”

“You’re not a killer.”

“That’s right,” she tossed back. “I’m not. But you are.”

“Exactly my point. There’s one thing a natural-born killer knows and that’s another killer.”

“I appreciate your vote of confidence.” She reached for the door.

“You think about it often.”

Enough. But some tiny little seed of doubt wouldn’t let her walk away without hearing him out.

No… wait.

… one with the misfortune of being born to parents who kill, could, in fact, become a killer simply by virtue of DNA.

He’d said those words to her. Sarah recalled distinctly that tense conversation. And now she knew exactly what he’d been saying. “You’re worried about your daughter.”

The flare of surprise in his eyes told her she’d nailed his deepest, darkest fear.

“Why would I worry about Jerri Lynn?” He schooled his expression. “She’s the perfect daughter. An honor student. She’s never been in trouble in her life.”

A triumphant smile slid across Sarah’s face. Now she understood. “You’re afraid she’s like you.”

Something dark and sinister lit his eyes then. “Perhaps you’re mistaking your own fears with mine. Whether or not you will inherit your mother’s penchant for killing is something you think about often.”

He struck that nerve, unerringly. “Perhaps,” she confessed. “As any offspring of a killer would.”

“There are conflicting theories regarding the DNA issue, as you well know,” he rebutted, unwilling for her to have the last word. “But there is one sure way to be certain of yourself.”

Don’t let him see you sweat. Don’t even ask what he means.

She should let it go… move on. But there was more here.

The truth.

“I know you want to ask how.”

She could say no, but he would recognize the lie. “Say what you have to say, Pope. I have things to do.”

He smiled, believing he’d won. “Yes, of course. As I was saying, the test is simple. The next time you’re in a tight spot, see where instinct guides you. If the first instinct is to kill, then you may have a problem on your hands.”

“Is that why you’re here,” she challenged. “Because your daughter failed the test?”

Pope’s jaw tightened. “I would do anything to protect my daughter, that’s true.”

As any parent would. That was his point. “What about your wife?” Might as well cover both possibilities.

Just when Sarah was certain she couldn’t be surprised any further by the man, he did just that. Sadness settled over his face.

How could a killer feel such a broad range of genuine emotions?

“We’re finished here.” Pope looked away from her.

Sarah had gotten all she was going to from him.

She exited the room.

Besides, her creep meter had topped out.

“Satisfied?” August wanted to know.

“Yeah. He’s all yours.” Even if you don’t have the right killer.

She was out of here.

If these people were too stupid to see the facts, then tough shit.

She found her coat and bag near the dispatcher’s desk and headed for the rear exit.

Kale waited for her outside. Or maybe he’d been out there for his own purposes. Whatever. He was currently in her path.

“What was that all about?”

She took a breath. “That was about confirming my conclusions. Jerald Pope did not kill Valerie or Alicia.”

“Did he say that?”

“No. But it’s the truth. When someone else goes missing, you and your friends will figure it out. I’m out of here.”

She walked past him.

“Just like that.”

She hesitated. Shook her head. This was why she never got tangled up in relationships. Not since that one stupid mistake.

“I guess this thing between you and August is still there.”

And there was the jealousy card. Perfect. He was a guy, what did she expect? He would rather assume she was still hung up on another guy than to believe for a second that she could simply live without him.

Sarah turned around. “You see, Conner, this is why I don’t do relationships. They’re messy and one person always wants it more than the other.”

Those dark, dark eyes reached deep into hers, maybe deeper than anyone had gone before. “You don’t want to know where this”—he gestured to her then to himself—”can go?”

She thought of how it felt to be with him, so damned intense. And of his family who had that whole Disney Channel thing going on, something she’d never had. So tempting… but what if it wasn’t real?

She wasn’t setting herself up for that kind of letdown.

“Good-bye, Conner. It’s been… real.” For the first time she meant that in the truest sense of the word. Real. But too big a gamble to dare to depend on.

He didn’t try to stop her.

She was glad.

The emotions that choked off her ability to breathe would pass.

By the time she reached the inn she’d just about given up on avoiding the tears.

Damn it.

She would have gone inside but something in the backyard lured her attention there. Barton, the innkeeper, was digging… or burying something near a cluster of bushes. He patted the dirt with his shovel, chunked a little snow on top of it, and then strode off to the barn.

Strange man.

She went inside and packed her stuff. Dropped her key at the unmanned registration desk and headed for her car. She had no idea where everyone was. More importantly, she no longer cared. She was out of here.

Outside she groaned. Nightfall had awakened the fog. It had risen in full force. Great.

That wasn’t stopping her.

Her suitcase was in the trunk before she remembered she had to get a receipt. Tae would raise hell if she came back, again, without a receipt.

But if there was no one in there, she couldn’t get a receipt. Maybe the innkeeper was back at his post by now.

She’d almost made it to the door. Through the window she could see Barton Harvey behind the desk.

It was dark. Not to mention it was foggy as hell.

She should leave.

There was a flight at nine. She could make it.

But then she’d never know what the innkeeper had been up to. She’d recognized that he had something to hide since she’d gotten here. It was more than his dislike of her. It was probably that strange incident between him and Valerie Gerard. And definitely his weird behavior. Not to mention his wife’s overprotectiveness.

What would it hurt to check it out? If the family’s goldfish had croaked, she’d soon know. But if he was burying something else out there… she’d know that, too.

She would check to see what the digging was about and then she’d get her receipt and go. No big deal.

Maybe he’d found a dead rat or something and had decided to dispose of it. Or maybe he’d planted seeds. But that didn’t explain him dumping snow on the spot.

Her curiosity wouldn’t be put off. She made sure he was still behind his desk and she hurried around the corner of the inn. Once she stepped about ten feet from the building, the landscaping lights no longer illuminated the darkness. Even if he looked out now, he wouldn’t see her. It was completely dark over in those bushes. The moon was hiding behind the clouds. She was wearing black.

Go for it.

It was probably nothing. Maybe she just wanted to get back at old Barton for being such a dick the whole time she was here. Served him right. Maybe he’d buried his stash of Hustler magazines.

She knelt against the rocks bordering the cluster of bushes and dug out her flashlight. She wasn’t about to reach in there without looking first. After confirming the location of the recently disturbed earth and snow, she tucked her flashlight between her knees. She glanced back at the inn, noted that Harvey was still behind his desk, his back turned to the window.

Do it. She turned on the flashlight and aimed its beam on the spot; hopefully, her body would block most of the light.

Her fingers dug into the cold soil. She had to be out of her mind to do this.

Maybe she was crazy. Most people wherever she went ended up thinking so.

It really didn’t matter what kind of secrets the innkeeper had. Hell, it could be that dead rat she’d already considered. But that old familiar story instinct just wouldn’t let it go. Maybe she would—

Her fingers encountered a texture different from that of the dirt. Hard. She adjusted the beam of light.

A book?

A journal.

She opened it. Shook off the page. Boldly scrawled handwriting filled page after page.

A date at the top of one page caught her eye. February tenth, twenty years ago. A diary?

That packing sound that loose snow made when compressed by a footfall whispered against her eardrums.

She froze.

Sarah heard the thwack before she felt the pain.

The blast erupted in the back of her head.

Lights burst in her retinas.

Then nothing.