Mr. Crowley put the ladder away and went inside—but didn't close his door. I kept watching, intrigued, and a moment later he came back out and did something I didn't expect—he wrote something on a piece of paper and taped it to his door. I rummaged in the dark for my binoculars, and tried
to focus on the note without budging my curtains. It was too dark to read. I sat by the window all night, waiting, and when morning came I looked, reading through the binoculars in the feeble pre-dawn light.
YOU COULDN'T STOP ME, AND YOU NEVER WILL
It was a note to his stalker, flaunting his power and practically promising to keep killing more people, again and again.
It was barely a week since the last one—how much longer 'til the next? He was a killer, cold-blooded and evil, no matter how much he loved his wife or helped his neighbor. He was a demon. It was a demon.
And it had to die.
15
The new death was all over the news the next morning:
Roger Bowen, local truck driver, husband, and father, was found torn in half in the street in front of his house. The killer hadn't even bothered to move the body, let alone hide it.
Mom looked like she wanted to hug me—to reassure me, or herself, that everything was going to be okay. I suppose that's what mothers are supposed to do, and I felt guilty that mine couldn't do it. I could tell by the way she watched me that she wanted to comfort me, and that she knew I didn't need to be comforted. I wasn't sad, I was thoughtful. I didn't feel bad that he was dead, I felt guilty that I hadn't been able to stop his killer. I wondered, then, if I was doing all of this because I wanted to save the good guys, or if I just wanted to kill the bad guy. And I wondered if that made a difference.
Mom asked after a while if I wanted to call Max, and I knew, objectively, that I should have, but I didn't know what to say, so I didn't. Just as no one could comfort me, I couldn't comfort anyone else—that was the realm of empathy, and I would be completely useless. I suppose I could have said "Hey, Max, I know who killed your dad, and I'm going to kill him back," but I'm not an idiot—sociopath or not, I'm smart enough to know that's not how people talk to each other. Better to keep it all a secret.
As soon as the police cleared the crime scene on Saturday night there was a vigil for Max's dad. It was not a funeral—the FBI forensic team was only just beginning their autopsy—but a simple gathering, where we all came together and lit candles and prayed, or whatever. I wanted to watch Crowley's house instead, but Mom made me go. She pulled a couple of old dinner candles from a back drawer somewhere and we drove over. I was surprised at how big the vigil was.
Max was sitting on his porch, surrounded by his sister, his mom, and the whole Bowen family from out of town, who'd driven in to comfort them. It seemed to me that they'd want to drive away from a town under threat from a serial killer, not into it, but what did I know? Emotional connections made you do stupid things, I guess.
Margaret joined us, and we put flowers in the street where the body had been found; there was already a big pile. Someone had started a second pile for Greg Olson, also a family man, and still missing, but it wasn't nearly as big; many people still clung to the idea that he was guilty of something. Mrs.
Olson and her son were there, showing solidarity with the community, but there was a police escort hovering nearby, just in case anyone started a fight.
I was cold, and I was anxious to get back to watch Crowley's house, but most of all I was bored—all we were doing was standing around holding candles, and I didn't see the point,
We weren't accomplishing anything. We weren't finding the killer, or protecting the innocent, or giving Max a new dad.
We were just there, milling around, watching impotent little flames melt our candles, drop by drop.
At least our neighborhood-watch meeting had used a fire. I could start one now—we'd be warm, we'd have light, and, well. . . we'd have a big fire. That was its own reward. I looked around for something that would burn, but Mom pulled me suddenly toward the other edge of the vigil.
"Hello, Peg," she said, reaching out and hugging Mrs.
Watson. Brooke and her family had just arrived, all crying.
Brooke's face was wet with teardrops, round and raised like blisters, and I had to stop myself from reaching out to touch them.
"Hello April," said Mrs. Watson. "It's so terrible, isn't it? It's just so ... Brooke, honey, can you take the flowers over? Thanks."
"John can show you where they are," my Mom said quickly, turning to face me.
I shrugged. "Come on," I said, and Brooke and I walked through the crowd. "It's a good thing I'm here," I said, half joking and half bothered. "It's pretty hard to find the big pile of flowers in the middle of the street."
"Did you know him?" Brooke asked.
"Max?"
"His dad," she said, wiping her eyes with a gloved finger.
"Not very well," I said. I did know him pretty well, actually—he was loud, arrogant, and shot his mouth off about anything he had even half an opinion on. I hated him. Max idolized him. He was better off without him.
We reached the pile and Brooke set down the flowers.