Fiction River Special Edition: Crime, page 22
She didn’t plan to be around for that. Nor did she plan for Stanley to be around. She almost felt guilty at taking the Boss’s cartographer—basically his entire production unit—away. But not really. Stanley had worked at Map Resources for nearly twenty years and the Boss was too blind to see what was under his roof.
***
Stanley worked mechanically, letting his eyes and fingers move of their own accord to straighten and re-place errant street labels.
Something about that Britney, especially when she stood close to him like she had earlier, something about her made him think. But he couldn’t pin it down.
At 11:45 he heard the big plotter warming up above him, heard her come down the stairs. Probably going to eat an early lunch while Collier County printed. He’d put off his own lunch until she was done.
And it was Thursday, so he’d drop his homemade pies off at the retirement center on the way home. It’d be safe—the old ladies didn’t trigger his ember.
***
She stood on the loading dock and finished her Coke, looking out into the dusty woods beside the warehouse and letting the warm breeze cool her. She could feel the weight of the rows and shelves of boxed road maps behind her, many of them outdated by ten or more years. Incredible to believe they still sold those things.
Robert, the back-end guy, had taken the truck into town to get the oil changed. The Boss was in his office, making lunchtime sales calls, and Stanley had finally come out of his lair for his Thursday lunch outing to McD’s. She had the place to herself.
She dialed her cellphone and the other end rang three times before it picked up. “Pratt.” He sounded out of breath.
“Deputy, it’s Britney Cole. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Britney. No.” He took a deep breath then said, “What’s happening?”
“He’s on edge. I’m afraid he’s going to bolt. I think I have to do it tonight.”
“Oh for—Don’t. Just don’t. It’s too short notice.”
“He’s going to bolt. I don’t know what it is, but he’s super twitchy and every time I look at him he acts like I caught him surfing porn.”
“How do you know it’s you?”
“I can see how he looks at me, it’s different. It’s ... God, it’s just creepy. He’s looking at me like he wants to eat me or something. Like he’s holding himself back.”
“Can you at least push it to tomorrow? We can put surveillance on him tonight.”
“Like that worked the last time.” She heard his little intake of breath and knew the barb had stung.
“Goddammit,” he muttered. “What the hell did you do to him?”
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure it was me. But it’s me now, and he’s gone over some edge.”
“Look, we’re short-staffed tonight. I can’t keep you safe,” he said. “Tomorrow I can have half the force out there.”
“He might be gone in the morning and we won’t know where and another girl will die,” she said.
“Christ, Britney. I just don’t have the manpower tonight. It has to be tomorrow.”
Stanley might bolt before tomorrow. He might do something else before tomorrow. But Deputy Pratt had a desperate edge to his voice. And he’d accommodated her, heck, defended her, and most likely against his better judgment. She listened to him breathe while she considered.
“Just don’t spook him,” he said. “I trust you. You can do that.”
Don’t spook him. She probably already had, and she didn’t even know how. She found herself pacing up and down the loading dock and forced herself to stop. She could be careful. “Okay, tomorrow,” she said.
“We’ll be there. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Deputy.”
***
Lieutenant Mike Pratt poked the disconnect button and wound up like he was going to throw the phone across the Sheriff Office’s tiny parking lot. Damn that girl to hell and back. He let his arm drop to his side.
Bad enough that every cop in the county suspected they had a serial killer living in their back yard. Bad enough that he was a suspicious, paranoid sonofabitch and they couldn’t get near him. Bad enough that said paranoia extended to a lack of ownership of a computer, a cellphone or a car with any sort of electronic chip in it so they couldn’t track his internet usage or use his GPS to watch him. Bad enough it had been going on for two years. All that bad enough.
Worse was Britney Cole.
She’d contacted the Sheriff’s Office out of the blue two weeks ago, come down to the station to talk to him. He’d taken her to one of the small conference rooms, didn’t bother to sit as he asked her what she needed. She said she’d taken a job at Map Resources for the express purpose of getting close to Stanley Hargrove.
He hadn’t even let her continue. Told her to quit, get the fuck away. She’d smiled and politely—but firmly—refused.
At that point, he’d begun reconsidering his initial blonde airheaded beach girl assessment of her.
Fifteen minutes later, when she stopped talking, he’d sat down in one of the worn conference room chairs and just stared across the table at her.
She’d done her research, the same research that his department had done. They’d correlated six of Stanley’s vacations to missing young women in other parts of the country. She had all those, plus five more they didn’t.
One of whom was her older half-sister in San Diego, seven years ago. Britney had gone to the police there, but they’d shooed her away. She’d gone to the police in Boise, where two girls had gone missing over a ten-year gap at U of Idaho. Again, dismissed.
So she’d come to the source. And, wary of a third dismissal, had decided to act first and apologize later.
Except that she’d fucked up his life and hadn’t yet apologized.
His people didn’t have enough evidence to bring Stanley in. Neither did anyone else. It was all circumstantial, and weak at that. And they couldn’t get near him. They’d tried a year ago, but he’d spooked and disappeared for a week. They’d scoured their feeds, made innumerable calls, but there were no college girls missing that week. None that anyone knew of.
And now this—this idiot vigilante girl was trying to set the guy up.
But not an idiot. After his initial denial, he’d grilled her for an hour about what she was doing, what she intended, where her head was, what her contingencies were, a dozen other topics. Looking for chinks in her armor, gaps in her knowledge, soft spots in her resolve. And then he found himself defending her to the Sheriff, saying that she was their best and likely only chance at catching Stanley Hargrove. That as much as he hated to admit it, Britney Cole was tough and smart and tenacious as hell.
The Sheriff hated the idea. But the Sheriff was a smart man, a political man, and he saw all the possibilities. And he’d eventually agreed. But he’d put Mike in charge to take the fall if the possibility of disaster was the one that won out.
And even after promising—promising—that she’d work with him every step, she’d pulled the trigger and made Stanley so nervous that they had to move now. Now, with the Sheriff gone to some glad-handing conference in Sacramento. Christ on a stick.
He sighed and stretched his arms across the top of his unmarked. Then pulled back from the heat. He thought of his own sister, living in Atlanta with a husband and two kids. What he’d do if it were she who had been killed seven years ago as a college sophomore. Or had insinuated herself in the killer’s world today. Goddammit.
***
“Uh, what?” Stanley wasn’t sure he’d heard right. The summer rain drumming on the warehouse roof was muffled here in the offices, and he wanted to make sure.
“My family has a place, off Porter Road,” she said. She dropped her eyes. “I’d like to show it to you.”
She’d like to show it to him. He’d heard right. The ember inside him had ignited in the night, and now it blazed like a beacon, burning him with a fire that wouldn’t be quenched until ... until. Well. Until.
And she was making it easy. No need to take vacation, no need to pick another city, no need to wait.
But it was his own back yard. First rule was don’t do your business in your own back yard. He’d learned that early with a couple of close calls. “I thought you said your family was in Atlanta.”
“I did,” she said. “They are. My parents grew up here, and the place was my grandmother’s. My folks only come up here a couple times a year.”
Nobody local to miss her, not until it was far too late. And he could fake a letter to the Boss. It wouldn’t take much. It’d be easy.
But still dangerous. “No, uh, that’s okay. I’ve got something to do tonight.”
She raised her eyes and looked at him. He’d seen that look, the one that said come with me, I’ll make you feel good. But it was a lie, it didn’t make him feel good. It was bad and he felt bad and he didn’t like when he had to do what he did, but he had to do it and—. He resisted the urge to close his eyes as he fought for and regained his control.
“Okay, Stanley,” she said. “Too bad, though. It’s a neat place.” And she turned to go.
She’d called him Stanley. Not Stan. The fire blazed. Insistent. “Wait!”
She paused at the doorway, turned and said, “You’ll come?”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll pick you up.”
She shook her head. “I’d rather meet you there. I have some things to get. Food and such.”
He started to argue, but realized that if she met him there, that would take care of her car. “Where off Porter?” he said, trying to keep his voice from betraying his thoughts.
“Pretty far out. You’ll have to go through the gate. I’ll draw you a map,” she said. She walked back to his desk and picked up his pen. And she smiled a whore’s smile at him as she drew.
***
In the dingy ladies’ room in the back corner of the warehouse, Britney leaned over the bowl and tried not to throw up. “What am I doing?” she muttered.
She’d tiptoed around Stanley all yesterday afternoon. And then she’d thought she’d lost him when she gambled just now and let him turn her down.
But he’d agreed. And she knew he’d be there.
She took a deep breath and stepped into the muggy warehouse, the sound of slacking rain on the metal roof nearly deafening her.
***
Stanley turned his VW Rabbit onto Porter Road, ticked off eight miles as the road wound up into the low rural hills, then began to look for the cutoff road Britney had drawn on her map.
He’d prepared carefully. Showered and dressed and arranged his tools in their nylon bag, each one velcroed in its proper place. The bag in the trunk, along with his rope and shovel and pickaxe. And duct tape. Never go anywhere without duct tape.
Once he’d decided to treat this like any other outing in any other place, he’d calmed down. Matter of fact, maybe he was too calm. No matter, he was overthinking.
He found the cutoff and turned onto the overgrown gravel road. A hundred yards ahead, just like she said, was the gate. And just like she said, it was unlocked.
He got out and squished through the grass to push the gate open. At least the rain earlier had been brief. Made the evening that much more humid, but it washed the dust off the trees and everything smelled nice.
Then again, he was getting mud on his shoes. He’d have to clean them well when he got home.
Once he’d driven the car through, he closed the gate behind him.
He checked her map again. Second drive on the left, it would dead end. If he drove past instead of turning, then past another dead-end drive, the unnamed gravel road would loop around and meet back up with Porter Road east of where he’d come in.
He put the VW into gear and eased up the gravel road. A hundred yards and he saw the break in the trees on the left, just where she said. The drive wasn’t even graveled, but the trees were so thick, the leaves so huge that the dirt was hardly wet from the rain.
It opened up and there was her little Subaru sitting next to a tiny honest-to-gosh log cabin. A log cabin in the woods. He liked that.
He pulled up behind her car and got out. The cabin door opened and she stepped onto the rough porch, smiling at him.
Glad to see him.
The fire in him raged.
***
Britney didn’t dare let Stanley see her nervousness. If he caught even a whiff of oddity, he’d run. Or worse.
Cops in the woods, their cop cars hidden along the far drive, which was little more than an overgrown stub into the undergrowth. No cabin back there. Mike Pratt in the van hidden down the first drive, listening to the wire taped to her chest and stomach. The tape itched.
The cops had debated on the van, whether to park it in the first drive. If Stanley turned there by mistake, he might see evidence of its passage and flee.
But they’d taken the chance. The first drive was closer than the one further down. He could hear better, respond faster.
Wine cooler. That was her safety phrase. Mike had told her to use it in a sentence if she got uncomfortable for any reason, and his team would swarm out of the woods. He’d stressed that her safety was more important than getting Stanley.
She disagreed. But she hadn’t told Mike.
She smiled at Stanley as he got out of the car, and stepped off the porch to meet him on the moist grass of the clearing.
***
“This is it, people,” Mike said. He listened to the soft assents as his officers checked in.
The van, two cars, and six officers, not including himself. Macon’s SWAT team was supposed to come, but they were dealing with a gang-related home invasion and standoff.
He had everyone he could muster. Him in the van, the remaining six officers in the woods. He didn’t have enough bodies to have anyone ready in the cruisers. And he hadn’t dared put anyone in the cabin.
It wasn’t enough. He knew it wasn’t enough. And if anything happened to Britney it would be his fault.
Christ.
***
The girl was dolled up just like a whore. Not even a possibility of a nice girl remained on her. Her shorts were shorter than anything she’d worn to work (and he’d paid attention, oh yes), and her top strained against her breasts, gapping almost obscenely.
“Stan!” she smiled, her red lipstick and dark eyes just wrong in this place. In any place.
“Stanley,” he said automatically.
“I’m sorry. Stanley. I know that,” she said.
“I’ve, uh, got something I want to grab out of my trunk, is that okay?” Something about her was making him tongue-tied. Something pinging the back of his brain.
“Sure, no problem.”
He popped the trunk and retrieved his bag of tools. Adjusted the strap carefully over his shoulder. Only then approached her.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Uh, just stuff. Can we go inside? I’d like to see the inside.” Smaller space inside. More control.
“Sure, Stan. But in a moment, okay? I’d like to talk out here for a few minutes.”
This wasn’t how it should go. He should be in charge. And he would be, once they got inside. Let her talk for a moment, though, he had time, plenty of time. They were out here alone. “Okay,” he said.
She paused for a moment almost studying him, disconcerting. Her eyes—they were green, he’d noticed that before but hadn’t really remembered—seemed to harden. Her smile slowly faded. He shifted his weight. This felt wrong, he should be in control and he wasn’t. He could feel sweat trickle between his shoulder blades.
“Stan, do you know a woman named Victoria Efferman?”
He frowned. Definitely out of control. But, “No. Why? Should I?”
“She was my sister. You killed her seven years ago in San Diego.”
***
FuckfuckFUCK! What the fuck was she doing? Mike slammed his palm on the console. She was supposed to be more subtle, they had discussed it at length over the past week, run through all sorts of scripts and scenarios and role-playing until she could deal with anything.
Accusing Stanley with her first godforsaken breath was not the script.
Send them in, now. Take him down before he went for her. Or, for that matter, she went for him. Because he sure as hell couldn’t trust her now. Mike’s hand hovered over the radio switch. One word and his team would go in hot.
But it would be for nothing. Nothing had changed, except that Stanley would certainly disappear from Crawford County for good, turn up somewhere else, and more young women would die.
God damn it all to hell.
He pulled his hand back. His decision had taken less than a second to make.
***
Stanley’s blood seemed to turn to ice all at once. All he saw was her, all he heard was her voice. Seven years ago in San Diego. Seven years ago in—
Then he saw it. Saw her. Dressed exactly like the one before him, but a different face. A sister’s face. Felt the echo of heat of the unusually warm California night as he killed her, using some of the same tools that were in the bag that hung heavy on his shoulder.
San Diego had smelled of the sea. Crawford smelled of green. It had always smelled of green, from the very beginning.
“You killed other girls too, didn’t you, Stan? In Idaho, and Illinois. And other places, too. Why’d you kill them, Stan? What sort of sick, perverted, twisted piece of shit of a man does that sort of thing? Huh, Stan?”
He opened his mouth, closed it. He’d lost control. He’d lost control and he had to get it back.
“What sort of man, Stan?” She closed the gap between them, in his face now, she was as tall as he was, and he smelled her perfume, too much for a nice girl, too much. “Tell me, Stan!” she was shouting at him and he heard his own voice shouting back even though he didn’t realize he had even taken a breath.
