The Bachelorette Party, page 23
All at once, I want to run out of the room as fast as I can. I start to stand. “So, as I said, they want to wrap things up now.”
“Wait,” Eric Myers says, the word jumping out. Moving closer, he drops his voice to a whisper. “I have something else to talk about.”
“Okay,” I say, with hesitation, not fully sitting or standing right now. “What is that?”
He taps on the table twice, a nonverbal command to sit down again. I bristle against the arrogant gesture, but my journalistic instinct wins out and I sit back down.
He leans back now, having won that skirmish. “I think Crimeline will be very interested in this one.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
NOW
When I wake up, I am crouching over Melody, my hand above her head in a fist.
She lies on the floor, gazing up at me in shock and fear.
I unclench my fist, dropping my hand like it’s on fire, and stand up. I was dreaming. Oh God, I was doing it again.
“I’m so sorry, Melody. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” I reach my hand out to help her up, but she waves it away.
“I’m okay,” she says, breathless. I’m expecting stab wounds all over her, but of course, I didn’t have a knife. I could have hit her, but she doesn’t seem bruised or anything. The wound on her arm has bled into her shirt, but nothing else.
“Jesus on a motorbike.” She slowly stands up and takes a pronounced step away from me. “You weren’t kidding about being violent in your dreams. You scared the fucking shit out of me.”
I back away from her as well. “I’m sorry.”
“You were like, punching the air,” she says, still catching her breath. “And I tried to stop you. Which … was a mistake.” She rubs her forehead in a gesture of exhaustion. “What were you dreaming about?”
I lean against the couch, my arm tired, as if I were just lifting weights. “It was … him. In a balaclava.” I try to remember who it really was though, when I pulled off the mask, but the face remains fuzzy. I gaze around the room to get my bearings again, still feeling half-asleep. “Sorry,” I repeat.
“Well, I did whack you with a tennis racket, so I suppose I can’t get too upset.” She motions around the room. “As you can see, Noah didn’t come yet. It’s only been a half hour, but come on, it shouldn’t take that long.”
“I was only asleep a half hour?” I ask, shocked. I walk over to the window to find the sky filling with a rosy pink. “It felt like hours.” She’s right though. Noah is only a mile away. It shouldn’t take that long. “Maybe his mom woke up again.”
“Or his car won’t start. Or he’s snowed in. There are plausible reasons,” she admits. The blood on her leg is now leaking through her jeans. “And he probably can’t get through to tell us because of the signal.”
I chew on my thumbnail. “Maybe we should go out again,” I say. “If he’s not coming.”
“I don’t know,” she says, through gritted teeth. “Alex, I honestly don’t know if I can walk outside right now. My leg is killing me.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “I’m not feeling so hot myself.” My bones still ache back from falling out of the truck, which seems like days ago now. And of course, my head hurts like hell. “Plus, honestly, it doesn’t change much if Noah comes or not. We just have to wait it out. Traffic will be back on the street soon enough.”
Melody sits heavily on the sofa, her face pale and tired.
“How about you rest this time?” I offer.
“No, that’s okay,” she says, but I catch a beat of relief in her expression.
“Please,” I say. “It’s only right. I’ll take watch.”
She yawns. “Maybe just a little rest would be okay.” With that, she adjusts herself to lie down. “Do me a favor?”
“What?” I ask, through a yawn.
“Don’t fall asleep and beat me up.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say, trying for humor but sounding grim. “Just get some sleep. I’ll be on the lookout for Noah.”
“Okay,” she says, the word slurred with sleep.
But then a soft crunching noise comes from outside, and her eyes pop open.
“What was that?” she whispers.
“Maybe it’s Noah?” I glance outside. “I didn’t hear a car though.”
“Maybe someone dropped him off?” she asks.
“Wouldn’t he just knock?” I whisper back. “Or …” I make the sign of a phone with my hand against my ear.
“No signal,” she whispers. “But—”
The noise gets louder though, and we stare at each other, eyes opened wide.
They sound like footsteps.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
NOVEMBER
“My cellie’s planning to escape,” Eric says, leaning back with his arms crossed, as if he just declared checkmate.
I’m not impressed with the chess move though, recognizing it as a desperate attempt to keep me in the room. He would hardly be discussing real escape plans in front of a corrections officer, no matter how uninterested said corrections officer appears.
“Is he,” I say, conversationally.
“Yeah, he is,” Eric Myers answers, clearly irked by my indifferent tone. “And he’s the real deal. Really. They call him the Engineer. Because …”
I close my notebook. “He used to be an engineer?”
“Yes, that’s right,” he says, pulling on the edge of the table, as if telekinetically trying to pull me back in too. “And he got a blueprint of the prison. Someone from home found it for him.”
My brain skips ahead now. I have to get the profile done soon, even though Toby won’t green-light a show on it. And she shouldn’t. Eric Myers slipped up. He accidentally uttered the truth. For the very first time since I took on the project, I’m absolutely certain that he did it.
Maybe I could work on it over Thanksgiving, since Jay will be in Australia and I’ll be in Vermont. The wedding will be here before I know it, and despite all my protestations, Lainey and Melody have planned a bachelorette party for the first weekend in December, though they won’t tell me where.
“Found the original work permit from 1973,” Eric Myers says, breaking into my reverie. His fingers tap a nervous rhythm on the table. The guard yawns into his fist. “The ventilation system,” Eric says, again in a low voice, “that’s the key. He’s just making sure the ducts can support our weight.”
The word catches my attention despite myself. “Our weight?” I ask. “So that means you’re included in this scheme?”
“Maybe,” he says, a glint in his eyes. “Maybe not.”
Now the corrections officer rolls his eyes.
“Listen, Eric. I was given a very clear assignment with little wiggle room. The 666 murders. I’m sorry, but the Engineer has nothing to do with the case.” Plus, I think it’s complete bullshit, I add in my head.
He moves closer to me, his teeth bared. For the first time, I can see aggression in his face. I can see what Leigh Jones might have seen. What Nicole White might have seen.
“It’s about a dangerous criminal escaping,” Eric Myers says, a threat running through the words. “Isn’t that important?”
I cross my arms, asserting my own boundary. “If that’s truly going to happen though,” I say. “I would need to alert the authorities, right? They stack on quite a bit of additional time for that, don’t they?”
He snorts. “To a life sentence?”
With a slap, I close my notebook. “And then you would just what … change your identity? Try to get a job and a house?” I ask, throwing some cold reality on his plan. “And then watch over your shoulder for the rest of your days?”
He shrugs. “I got life in here. If they catch me, I’ll get life again. Doesn’t seem like much of a risk to me.”
“I suppose,” I say, out of politeness.
“You could get the scoop on it,” he says, with a beat of frenetic excitement, changing tactics from aggressor to helper. “When we escape, you could tell everyone how we did it. Expose all the weaknesses in the system.”
I shrug. It’s not bad TV. But, and I don’t want to come off as jaded and heartless, it’s been done before. “I want to thank you though,” I say, cutting off this subject. “You’ve been very open with me, and I appreciate that. So—”
“By the way,” Eric says, a lazy grin on his face. “How’s Jay doing these days?”
My body jerks in my chair. “What?”
“Your fiancé,” he answers, matter-of-factly. “And … what’s his son’s name … Greg?”
Unease trickles into dread. How would he know that?
A nebulous smile appears on his face. “That would make you the evil stepmother, right?”
I don’t say anything. The caged clock ticks on the wall, the sound deafening. I back my seat up. How could he possibly know this? Did he send the letter? Get someone to call me?
“That’s gotta be tough,” he says, leaning back, obviously relishing my discomfort. “Kids don’t usually like their stepmothers.”
“Thanks for your time, Eric. I wish you the best of luck,” I say. And as I abruptly stand up to end the interview, Eric Myers keeps sitting there, smiling.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
NOVEMBER
My mind spins on the ride home.
Do I tell Jay? Have I put him and his son in danger? He was right all along. As was my mom. I was taking too big of a chance. I never should have gotten this close to a serial killer. I never should have gone to the prison to see him.
Maybe Eric Myers was just trying to provoke me, to keep me on his case. The move seems counterproductive at best, but he’s not the brightest specimen anyway. Maybe it’s just an empty threat.
Pictures flash in front of me.
His teeth bared. His cocky grin.
His blue, blue eyes.
But another voice crawls into my head. Clare Dibold has blue eyes. And yes, Ryan Johnson too. But how would he know about the butterfly necklace?
I switch the radio on to drown out the voices, when my phone rings. The touchscreen shows Juanita’s number and I push it to answer.
“Hello?”
“Are you sitting down?” Juanita asks.
“Yeah,” I say, checking the rearview mirror to change lanes. “I’m in a car, which has seats so …”
“Okay. Good news,” she says, her tone triumphant. “Got a breakthrough on the letter.”
“You got a DNA match?” I ask, with relief. Finally, some positive news.
“Yes,” she says. “And we got a picture of him buying the burner phone. And I’ll check, but I assume it’ll match up with the flowers too.”
“A friend of Eric Myers?” I ask.
“Nope,” she says.
“Ryan Johnson,” I guess.
“Nope,” she answers, sounding too pleased to keep me in suspense.
“Well then, who the hell is it?” I ask, getting annoyed now by her song and dance.
“I’m sending you the picture right now.”
Hours later, I’m almost home.
I don’t know what to tell Jay.
It wasn’t Eric Myers sending me the letters and calling me. Nor was it a false flag operation. The letter didn’t have anything to do with the case, not directly. Neither did the phone call. The fact that they even had the DNA was just happenstance. He had visited the police station for a school project years ago. The parents signed waivers without really reading them, and the class’s DNA ended up on a database.
That wasn’t all.
There was the security camera photo. From the phone number, Juanita and her crew managed to trace the serial number of the burner phone, which came from a nearby store. It was bought with cash, but checking the time-stamped receipts, they tracked the time and matched it to the security footage. His face looked young and nervous when he glanced up at the camera, laying out his money. Once they had the suspect, they could easily verify that the fake PayPal account used to buy the flowers belonged to him as well.
The final nail in the coffin: the DNA from the blood on the letter matched his DNA from the database. The letter, the flowers, the texts … all him. The grainy picture, now sitting on my phone, which left me gobsmacked, but also left no room for error.
And I don’t know what to tell Jay.
Because the person in the picture is Greg.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
NOW
The noise stops.
We both stand in the middle of the room by the couch, time hanging over us as we listen, immobile, absolutely silent. A couple of minutes drag by before I run over to the window to steal another look outside.
No one is there.
“False alarm,” I say, and start breathing again.
Melody nods, her hand over her heart. “Probably an animal or something.” She starts to sit on the couch again.
But then the sound returns.
We both stiffen.
A loud thumping comes up the stairs, creaking on the wooden porch.
Unmistakable footsteps.
We dash against the wall by the front windows, hiding behind the musty green curtain. When footsteps creep on the porch again, my heart bangs in my chest so hard that it hurts. A man’s head taps against the window, like maybe he’s trying to look in. We stay plastered against the wall. The heat puffs the curtain out though, a half an inch.
“It’s him,” Melody gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. She drops to the floor, and I plunge down right next to her.
“Are you sure?” I ask, my voice dry in my throat. I lift my head an inch to peek through the slice of window.
But she pulls me back, clinging to my arm. “Stop,” she whimpers. “He’ll see you.”
In a flash, I see him. His figure moves on the porch, then stops at the window. He’s tall, thin, dressed in all black. In an instant, I meet his beady blue eyes behind the balaclava.
Blue, definitely blue.
I crouch back down beside her, holding the curtain against the window. “Come on,” I say. “We should hide in the basement again.”
“No,” Melody cries. “Don’t leave me.” She hugs me, her arms quivering.
A rattling noise jars the room.
The doorknob twists and jiggles, as if turned by a ghost, then his footsteps march on the porch. Again, the knob shakes angrily, and when it stops, time pauses.
We hear nothing, just the soft sigh of the wind and our own breath. But then a horrible banging makes us jump. We crawl closer to each other, embracing. Her heart pounds into her neck.
We can see the shadow of his body through the curtain, slamming himself into the door. The door moves forward by a millimeter. After a pause, he tries again, the door groaning and squeaking. Melody covers her ears as he tries again and again, a slamming sound with every bash. But the door does not give.
After a few agonizing moments, the noise stops. We sit there breathless, clinging to each other, waiting for him to try again.
Silence.
The footsteps sound out again, but this time with the rhythmic clatter of moving down the stairs. I’m praying he’s given up. Maybe he’ll run away out of anger. Or maybe Noah will come in time to scare him off.
Glimpsing out the tiny window view, I see nothing. I shift my feet, my legs tight and burning from crouching. Melody releases her hands from her ears, her arms barely trembling. I’m about to move to look out the window again when a crash sounds out and Melody shrieks.
A loud cymbal, glass breaking.
Shards sail through the air.
A black-gloved hand reaches through the side window and undoes the lock.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
NOW
The man in black strides in, holding his long knife in the air.
Melody jumps up and grabs the gun from against the wall, then takes a step back, the shotgun shaking in her hands. She is crying, her confidence and poise evaporated. A television pilot does not compare to real life.
“Shoot!” I scream. “Shoot the gun!”
“Please,” she says, pleading with him. “Please stop.”
He takes another step forward and lifts the knife up high. The gun trembles as tears run down her cheeks.
In the space of a few seconds, I realize the truth.
This is my fault.
If I had taken the engineer thing seriously, if I hadn’t worried about my damn scoop, my ambitions, and career so damn much, he never would have gotten out. If I had believed him when he slipped up about the butterfly necklace, he never would have taken Lainey. He wouldn’t be here now, with a knife in his hand.
Without thinking, I take a running leap on top of him.
He emits a startled “ooof” sound, the breath knocked out of him, and the knife clatters to the ground. We both scramble for it. I try to grab the handle, but he does too and I can’t wrench it away from him. He raises his arm, and I don’t even know why, but I bite him, gnawing him like a dog, tasting sweat, fabric, and skin. He grunts in pain but holds onto the knife, and with his other hand, he elbows my head, rattling my teeth. But I don’t let go.
I taste his blood, and he lands another punch, which removes me from his arm. So I fall on top of him, laying all my weight on him, feeling like a little kid trying to tackle her big brother. Blindly, I punch at his head, but he dodges my blows, which glance off him.
“Melody,” I grunt. “Help me.” I catch a glimpse of her standing there in shock, her voice softly keening. “Come on,” I yell at her, as we struggle together in an odd wrestling dance. I reach once more for the knife, pushing his sleeve up, and revealing blue looping ink.
666.
“Melody!” I scream.
Eric pushes me off, standing up again, the knife above me. I have a flashback to the black-and-white Psycho poster from my college dorm. The poster stuck with putty on the wall. The knife stabbing over and over, the black blood swirling down the shower drain. Lainey making fun of me for it.
