CHAPTER 16
A sliver of a moon shone above him, shedding little light. Not enough light to leave a shadow as he emerged from the depths of tall oaks. He made his way around the house, careful not to make any noise as he checked each door and window.
He felt neither excitement nor fear. No emotion whatsoever.
Sometimes he wondered if he was human.
Since being released from prison, he’d been living outside among the stars and trees. He’d slept in parks and playgrounds, on rooftops and in abandoned buildings. Deep in the woods was where he kept his few belongings. To keep up appearances, he made a weekly trip to the public library, where he used the bathroom to shave and wash up. Food was easy enough to find if you knew where and when to look through Dumpsters.
He was a Dumpster diver.
He was a survivor.
He was a killer.
The truth was, he was also human, but his needs were mostly animalistic. He possessed an indifference to all but his physical needs . . . and now Lizzy Gardner, and his need for vengeance.
When he was younger, when he actually cared what other people thought, when he had hopes and dreams, he was what one teacher called socially awkward. He was excessively shy, and he had a lot of anxiety back then.
Retarded, moron, loser. He’d been called a lot of things in his lifetime, but that was because nobody had ever understood him. Nobody knew who he really was. Nobody cared.
People liked to say that everyone in the world had a mother and everyone had a father. What a joke. Some people just weren’t meant to procreate. Period. He used to think his mother was a magician: one minute she was there and the next she was not. His father was the embodiment of anger and fear—a raised hand, a harsh voice, pain and suffering tied to everything he said and did. Together they raised a paranoid, confused kid who seldom went to school. Every once in a while, a nice young lady or man from the state would stop by to check up on him. They would ask his mother or father, or whoever the hell was around, a few questions as they filled out some forms. They always left with concerned expressions on their faces, but the same person never came twice. There was a short time, maybe a week or so, when he’d been dropped off at his grandparents’ on his mother’s side, and there was a golden moment in time when he’d hoped that they might be his saviors. But no sooner had his grandmother fondled him under the pretense of wanting to be sure he was healthy and whole than he’d found his grandfather down at the lake, drowning the kittens they’d found that very morning at the end of their driveway.
That particular day was forever engraved in his mind.
That was the day he’d lost all hope.
Putting old memories behind him, he withdrew into the dark among the tallest trees in the backyard of the large house, where a creek ran along the back of the property. Everything was locked up tight, including the windows framing the downstairs bedroom, the only room with the lights on.
She was in there.
He was sure of it.
He’d followed her here from her downtown office the other day. It seemed he’d been watching Lizzy Gardner for most of his life, or at least had known of her. In fact, he thought he knew everything about her, but he had to admit, he wasn’t exactly sure why she was staying at this particular residence. After the death of her fiancé, it made sense that she’d moved in with her only sister. But it made even more sense to see her move out, away from her brother-in-law. The man had the innate sort of stupidity that came from being born with inferior genes. He’d thought about killing him just for sport, but that would only serve to make Lizzy happy. The last thing he wanted to do was make her happy.
Lizzy Gardner had ruined his life.
She was a bitch, and he planned to fuck with her, starting with her students. He had one picked out. The one she obviously cared for the most. His greatest regret was that someone else had tried to kill her fiancé before he had a chance to. Lizzy deserved everything she got. She liked to meddle in other people’s business. His business.
He closed his eyes, breathed in nature’s scent. His name was Frank Lyle.
Frank’s first kill was an accident, more or less. Happened when he was having sex with a girl. First time in his life. She’d gotten all bitchy, called him impotent and shit like that. He had wanted to shut her up . . . quick. So he’d killed her. Strangled her. Then he’d shoved his dick down her throat and it was amazing how hard he got.
He never got caught for that one.
He’d killed two more girls after that, and it was the second whore who sent him to prison. Two days after he killed Jennifer Campbell and left her body in Folsom Lake, the second whore, the one he’d strangled and left on the side of the road, managed to trick him. She’d played dead, and, after he left her, she had found a way back to civilization. When he was brought in for questioning and told that the girl was alive and well, he didn’t believe it until he saw her in the courtroom. There she was, sitting at the witness stand looking prim and proper, whining and crying as she recounted the horrors he’d put her through. She sure could tell a story. Made him sound like Jack the Ripper. Not once did she mention that he’d washed her up each night and heated her up some soup, even fed it to the bitch.
The jurors took less than an hour to come to the conclusion that he was guilty and should be locked up. They gave him ten years without parole. And they didn’t even know about the first two chicks he’d killed. The woman he’d thought he’d killed had told such a titillating story, word got around fast that, as far as rapists went, he was about as bad as they got.
It made no sense. He was put away for what? He didn’t even kill the bitch!
But that was nothing. Next thing he knew, rumors were flying and every dead body that floated to the surface of a lake or body of water was being attributed to him. He was being called “Spiderman,” a serial killer everyone was in a lather about.
Prior to Frank’s incarceration, at least four young girls had been abducted and murdered, their bodies left in various locations throughout Sacramento. Each child was held captive for months before being killed. The string of deaths had triggered a murder investigation, one of the largest in the history of the state. Hysteria reigned. Parents stopped dropping off their children at bus stops. Young people were afraid to walk outside without an escort. Playgrounds were empty.
Until somebody got the bright idea to hang the crimes on mad rapist Frank Lyle, since he was handy.
At first he didn’t like the crush of attention being thrown his way. Suddenly, everybody wanted to interview Frank Lyle. But as it snowballed, it started growing on him. He was a celebrity, even wound up on the cover of Time and People. For the first time in his life, he was somebody. Everyone knew his name. Everyone wanted to talk to him. His face was all over the news. Over the next decade, Frank aspired to have his image on serial-murder trading cards, comic books, T-shirts, and calendars. Book deals were in the talks—even a fucking movie!
And then, poof! Lizzy Gardner came onto the scene and told the media that Frank Lyle was merely a wannabe and a copycat. After that, every doctor in California was saying that he had a pathological need for notoriety and that he was delusional.
He passed the damn polygraph. Didn’t that mean anything?
Saying he bore a grudge would be downplaying his feelings toward Lizzy Gardner. He resented her. Hated her. Abhorred her. For the first time in his life, he’d had an identity . . . He’d been somebody. And she took it all away.
As it turned out, the real Spiderman had indeed come back to town to take care of unfinished business. But Lizzy Gardner proved resilient and took care of Spiderman once and for all.
Having served his time, Frank was promptly released. With his newfound anonymity, he quickly became unrecognizable. People didn’t look twice when he walked by. His book deal had crashed and burned. Nobody cared what he did or where he went.
He was back to being what he’d always been—a nobody.
But not for long.
As he planned and plotted, he felt a stirring of excitement building within. He felt alive again. He’d risen from the dead, and this time he would make them all pay. Nobody was safe. Not the granny walking less than a block from the bus stop. Not the jogger on American River trail or the speed-walker taking a quick break from work. Over the years he’d been watching, learning. Random acts of killing kept the police in the dark. And nobody liked the dark better than Frank Lyle.