“Then you’ll come straight here?”
“Yes. But call Gus and warn him. Also, call Hudson Creek PD. Tell them whatever you have to. Hell, tell them you’re afraid of me.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You need to do something.”
I hope I’m overreacting. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to Jillian.
I spend the rest of the drive to Helena worrying about two things. What if he’s using the fire and the murder as a distraction to get away? He could be long gone by the time the authorities realize they should be pursuing him.
The other concern is what if he’s not using this as a cover to run away? What if he’s staying put and killing anyone that could connect him?
Sarah Eaves’s son was convinced his mom was murdered. What if that was the killer eliminating one more witness?
When I get to the Child & Family Services office, my stomach is a knot of agitation. I don’t know which way is up. Making my anxiety worse, I have to go inside the building and lie.
I pull in to a parking spot in front of the blocky building and spend a moment calming myself down. His name is inside there. All of this could be over very quickly. I just have to go in there and get the paperwork Graham requested.
Yeah, that’s probably a felony. But that’s the least of my worries right now.
I step out of my Explorer, make sure I’m wearing a clean shirt without any bloodstains, and enter the lobby.
A security guard sitting at the front desk looks up from his phone. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to pick up some records for Poitier County.”
I’m ready to try to bluff him with my National Parks research permit and university ID, in the hopes that those official-looking documents would give me some credibility.
“Third floor. Room number four.”
“Thank you.”
Two minutes later I’m standing at the front desk. My leg is shaking so hard I have to press it against the counter to stop.
“May I help you?” a woman asks as she takes a seat behind the desk.
“Hello. I’m here to pick up some foster records requested by Poitier County?”
“When did you put the request in?”
“This morning.”
“Sorry. That takes about ten days. I’m surprised they didn’t tell you.”
Damn. Damn, damn.
I’ll be in jail or dead by then.
A voice calls out from an office. “Is that the Poitier County Sheriff’s Department?”
“Yes,” the woman in front of me replies. “I told him that it’d take at least ten days.”
“I have them on my desk,” says the person in the other room. “We had another call come in an hour ago, an urgent one. Apparently there’s a murder investigation.”
A woman dressed in a sharp pantsuit steps out of her office holding a thick binder. “I just finished putting these together. Here you go.”
I try to keep my hands from trembling as I take the binder from her. I casually flip it open. It’s filled with forms and photographs of children. There are at least thirty of them here.
“Thank you.”
I almost walk into the door as I scan through the faces, trying to find the one that belongs to the killer.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
COUNTERMEASURE
“Are you going to get that?” asks the guard as I walk past the front desk.
“Excuse me?” I look up from the binder.
“Your phone.” He points to my pocket.
I just now realize that it’s been ringing. “Oh, yeah.” I tuck the folder under my arm and take out my phone.
It’s a long-distance number from some area code I don’t recognize. I’m tempted to not answer but decide to take the call as I sit on a bench outside the building.
“Hello?” I say, only half paying attention. I’m trying to sort through the dozens of faces and find the ones that match up with when Sarah Eaves was at the Lane home.
“Theo?” asks a deep, basso voice.
“Yeah . . .” I flip toward the back when I realize that’s where the late ’70s and early ’80s are grouped. I stop on Sarah’s face. It’s a younger one than I’ve seen.
“Do I have your attention? Because you certainly have mine.”
The tone of the voice makes me look up from the folder. “Who is this?”
“Who do you think it is?”
I feel a cold finger touch my heart. “I’m not sure . . .”
“Let’s get right to the point and what you’re going to do.”
“About what?”
“First, you’re going to destroy all your notes and anything you haven’t turned over to the police.”
Fuck, no . . . it can’t be . . .
“Wait a second . . .”
“Theo, I’m not finished.” His voice is firm, like a K9 instructor telling a German shepherd to sit. “After you destroy your notes, you’re going to go to make a videotaped confession to the murder of Julie Lane.”
“But I didn’t kill her . . .”
“Of course you didn’t. I did. She was like a mother to me. And look what you made me do.”
My breathing is shallow. “Why?”
“Why do you think? If you hadn’t knocked on her door, she’d still be alive. You did that.”
“No, you did . . . ,” I say feebly.
“I may have been the instrument, but you were the cause. You know this. It’s just one more mess you’ve created that we have to clean up.”
“All of those people . . .”
“We’re all going to die. What difference does it make?”
“How . . . could you?”
“It’s what I am. Now let’s talk about what you are and what you’re going to do. After you destroy those notes and confess to killing Julie Lane, they’ll want to know about the other bodies. That’s why you’re going to say in your confession you manipulated them to hide the fact that you killed Juniper Parsons.”
“That’s insane. That’s not even possible.”
Everything feels like a dream. I have to stare out at the passing cars and smell the breeze to convince myself that this is really happening.
“Trust me. They’ll believe you. They already suspect you. Use your brain to think of methods and explanations. You’re a clever man. Too clever.”
“They won’t believe me.”
“They will, some of it. It’s up to you to convince them of the rest. Trust me, they want a simple explanation. They always do.”
For some reason I don’t protest. I just ask questions, as if this was inevitable.
“And if they don’t?”
“If you don’t convince them? What do you think, Theo?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know . . .”
“I’m sending you a photo.”
My phone chirps as a text message arrives. A black-and-white image pops up. I have to squint to see the details at first. When I recognize what I’m looking at, the world stops.
It’s an image of Jillian, taken with a night-vision camera.
She’s sleeping in her bed.
“I was there last night, Theo. I stood over her for an hour, watching. I’m very quiet. But I don’t have to go to her house again. I could sit at a table in her restaurant and slip a knife into her ribs as she refills my coffee. I could grab her as she goes to her car at night. I could shoot her from a hundred yards away. I have a lot of ways. And your friend, the old man, how hard do you think that would be? I could kill them both in twenty minutes and then be on my way to Florida to visit your mother. Or I could go to Texas and start killing random students at your college.”
I snap out of my dreamlike state and feel my blood boiling. “You fucker . . .”
“You started this. Now you have to end it. Right now you’re weighing the odds. Do you tell the police everything I told you? Or do you do exactly as I asked? Do you think they could protect everyone? They don’t even think I exist.”
“I know your name. I’ll tell them.” I don’t yet, but I know it’s in the binder.
“No, you don’t. You know an old name I haven’t used in thirty years. That boy, the one that . . . He doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Is that what it is? Some hick molests you and you become a serial killer?”
“It’s not that simple, Theo. Deep down we’re all animals. But that’s not important. You know what you need to do.”
“How do I know you won’t harm them anyway?”