Killing Spree

by Kevin O'Brien

Genres: Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

When a Serial Killer Gets a Taste for Blood . . . Years ago, the Seattle police were baffled by the Schoolgirl Murders. The killer staged the scenes, dressing his female victims in school girl uniforms and saddle shoes. No woman in Seattle felt safe, until they caught the man responsible, and the case was forgotten . . . He Only Wants to Do One Thing . . . Across the country, a killing spree is taking place. The first victim is attacked in a taxi by a mysterious stranger. The next is found strangled in a changing room. A hitchhiker is left by the side of the road, his identity brutally stolen. The murders are so bizarre, so random, no one would think to connect them . . . Kill and Kill Again . . . Only Seattle writer Gillian McBride sees the disturbing coincidences between all the murders—and it’s hitting too close to home. Somehow, she is the link between past and present—and to a twisted serial killer who shows no signs of stopping . . . Praise for the Novels of Kevin O’Brien “White knuckle action!…takes readers into the darkest corners of the human mind.” —Tess Gerritsen on One Last Scream “Scary! Read this page turner with the lights on!” —Lisa Jackson on Watch Them Die

Release date: March 27, 2018

Publisher: Pinnacle

Print pages: 448

Sample

All the crazies were out tonight.

What did he expect? It was Halloween, and the streets of Greenwich Village overflowed with people—drunk, laughing, screaming people, all in their stupid costumes. Tonight he’d seen a husky, bearded man in a nurse’s dress and cap; an attractive couple (and boy, didn’t they know it) as Adam and Eve, wearing strategically placed fig leaves and nothing else; and innumerable gay guys dressed up as characters out of The Wizard of Oz.

Amid the partyers, one person stood out to him. Wearing thick glasses and a rather nerdish cardigan sweater, the young man walked down the street alone, his hands shoved in his pants pockets. He seemed timid and detached. Strapped around his stomach was what looked like six sticks of dynamite and an alarm clock. Only a few people seemed to notice him, and when they did, they laughed. But it was nervous laughter.

Greg felt a bit like that lonely nerd, like a human time bomb about to go off. If he didn’t get out of the Village soon, he was going to explode.

Driving a cab in New York on Halloween night was pure torture.

Greg prayed that his next fare would take him to another part of town, far away from this crazy place. He planned to put one more hour on the meter before going home to his dumpy studio apartment so he could memorize an audition piece for tomorrow. It was a commercial for allergy medication, and he desperately wanted the job. Greg was living a cliché: the struggling thirtysomething actor by day and cabdriver by night. He’d convinced himself two years ago that driving a taxi would give him a chance to study people and better develop his craft. Huh, what a crock. After a few months, the only thing he’d learned was that there were some real jerks in the world.

And a lot of them had come out tonight.

Greg spotted the couple, waving at him from the corner of Hudson and Charles. The guy was dressed up as Zorro—with the cape, hat, mask, and the sword. The girl had gotten dolled up in a Spanish dancer outfit—a yellow dress with black lace, an elaborate headdress, and castanets. Approaching them, he heard her clicking those castanets and giggling. He saw her pretty face light up as he pulled toward the curb. She smiled.

Greg let out a grateful sigh. She looked like an angel.

She had long, light brown hair and a creamy complexion. The sexy-slutty señorita outfit looked so absurd on such a fresh-faced, sweet woman. He guessed she was in her late twenties. The way she weaved a bit, he could tell she was slightly drunk.

“Oh, thanks so much for stopping!” she gushed, climbing into the backseat with her masked boyfriend. “The last two taxis just sailed by—”

“1017 West Thirty-seventh,” barked Zorro, interrupting her.

Greg set the meter, then glanced at them in the rearview mirror.

The girl’s eyes met his as she settled back in the seat and buckled her seat belt. She grinned and clicked her castanets once more. “Hola! And Happy Halloween. How come you’re not wearing a costume?” She worked the castanets again.

“Cut that shit out,” Zorro grumbled.

“Huh, grouch,” she muttered, slipping the castanets into her little black purse. She gave Zorro a playful pout, then cleared her throat and called to Greg. “I’m having the best time! This is my third night in New York, and I love it! I don’t ever want to go back to Portland.” She raised her voice as if making a declaration. “I want to live in New York City and write best-sellers!” She laughed, then tapped Greg on the shoulder. “I’m getting a book published next month—my first. I’m an author.”

“Congratulations,” Greg said. “What kind of book is it? Will it—”

“You don’t need to make friends with the driver, dopey,” the man interrupted. He pulled her toward him. “Come here.” He kissed her neck and cupped a black-gloved hand over her breast.

She squirmed a bit. Greg noticed her looking at him in the mirror. She seemed embarrassed at the way her boyfriend was pawing her. “Quit,” she whispered.

“You fucking love it,” the masked man replied, pulling away from her for only a moment. He shut the Plexiglas divider between the front and backseat. Then he started fondling her again.

From what Greg could see, she didn’t seem to fucking love it. She tried to laugh and push the man away, but his hands and mouth were all over her. Greg saw her wincing. Her eyes connected with his. She seemed to plead for some kind of intervention. The man started to climb on top of her.

Greg had put up with couples fornicating in the back of his taxi before. But in all those cases, the women had seemed pretty damn willing. He could tell this woman wasn’t the type. No, not at all. This guy was humiliating her.

Greg thought about stopping the cab, opening the back door, and throwing Zorro out on his ass.

A car horn blared, and Greg suddenly realized he’d drifted into oncoming traffic. He swerved the taxi back into his lane.

He felt someone kick the back of his seat, and heard a muffled cry. Greg checked the mirror again. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

She wasn’t resisting anymore. Zorro was on top of her, and one of her legs had wrapped around him. She clutched at the back of his cape. She had her eyes closed, but her mouth was open and her lips slid along his neck.

Greg was so disappointed in her. For a crazy moment, he’d felt a connection with this sweet, fresh-faced young woman from Portland. He’d even thought he could rescue her. But now, she was letting this asshole screw her in the back of his taxi. And she seemed to be having a swell time of it.

Frowning, Greg stared at the road ahead. Through the Plexiglas divider, he could hear muffled moaning back there. But thank God, the traffic and street noise mostly drowned her out. He didn’t want to listen to her in the throes of ecstasy. He just wanted to get them the hell out of his cab. Jerks.

Greg turned onto West Thirty-seventh Street, a block full of little specialty stores with apartments above them. He pulled up in front of the address the guy had given him. It was a travel agency, closed for the night. Was this the right address?

He heard the Plexiglas divider whoosh open behind him. Greg glanced over his shoulder. The pretty brunette numbly stared at him, catching her breath. Zorro had finished with her. “I’m in a hurry,” the guy said. “She’s paying.”

Before Greg could respond, Zorro ducked out of the cab. His black cape billowed as he ran down an alley beside the travel agency. He disappeared into the darkness.

Greg shifted forward in his seat. “That’s eleven-fifty, ma’am,” he grunted. He checked the rearview mirror.

He couldn’t quite read the look in her eyes. She still seemed to be catching her breath. She muttered something back to him, but it was like a whimper. He couldn’t hear her past the rumbling motor.

Then he saw the dark red smudges on the handle to the Plexiglas divider. Zorro had opened it with his gloved hand.

Greg saw that she had tears in her eyes, and she was trembling.

“I’m stabbed,” she whispered. “Dear God…”

He swiveled around. Her hands clutched at the front of her yellow dress with the fancy black lace. The material was slashed across her belly—and drenched with blood.

 

“Police in Manhattan are searching tonight for a man dressed as Zorro,” the pretty, Asian anchorwoman announced. She wore a tailored black suit, and behind her was a red, bloody Z, a grisly take on the Mark of Zorro. “He’s wanted in connection with the stabbing of a twenty-eight-year-old Portland, Oregon, woman. The victim, whose identity is being withheld pending—”

“Her name was Jennifer Gilderhoff,” the man said to the TV. “And she ‘wanted to live in New York City and write best-sellers!’ Huh, poor, sorry bitch.”

“The victim was stabbed in the backseat of a taxicab, during a Halloween celebration in Greenwich Village,” the news anchor continued. “She was rushed to Roosevelt Hospital, where her condition is listed as critical.”

The man stared at the TV screen. “She’s not dead?”

The TV anchor paused for a somber beat. “In Queens tonight, a Halloween prank turned into a four-alarm fire when a group of teenagers—”

He grabbed the remote and switched off the TV. He couldn’t believe Jennifer was still alive. Of course, she wouldn’t be for long. He’d studied surgical procedures recently, and knew those stab wounds he’d made were fatal. She was probably in a coma.

Half-dressed and with his hair still wet from a shower, he wandered over to the honor bar, and poured himself a Scotch.

On the bed, with its hunter-green and maroon paisley spread, his suitcase was open and almost completely packed.

He chilled his drink with a few cubes from the ice bucket. Beside the plastic bucket on the desk was a paperback thriller, The Mark of Death by Gillian McBride. He’d been reading a passage from it earlier, and used a postcard to keep his place. He’d received the postcard in the mail several weeks ago. It announced the publication of a book by another author, Jennifer Gilderhoff, Burning Old Bridesmaids’ Dresses and Other Survival Stories. The postcard showed the predominantly pink book cover, with a cartoon woman brandishing a cigarette lighter wand.

Considering what he’d done to Jennifer tonight, he figured her lighthearted collection of “chick-lit” stories wouldn’t fare so well commercially. It certainly had to put a damper on a reader’s enjoyment when the author of such cutesy fluff got stabbed to death—or almost to death. He didn’t think she’d last out the night.

He sipped his Scotch, and flipped to the page he’d marked with Jennifer’s postcard. He tossed the card aside. Moving toward the bathroom, he read the passage in Gillian McBride’s The Mark of Death. He was very, very familiar with it:

Her blood was still warm and wet on his hands as he raced toward the alley beside the beautiful estate. His Zorro cape billowed behind him. He listened to the material flapping in the wind. The masked man felt such a rush of adrenaline. He felt like a superhero….

He stopped in the bathroom doorway, and closed Gillian McBride’s book. He gazed at the bathtub. The water in it had turned pink. His Zorro costume was soaking. After another rinse or two, all the blood would be gone.

He glanced at the book in his hand. “I did it better,” he whispered. “I did it better than you, Gillian.”

MEET THE AUTHOR! read the sign by the desk at the front of the Barnes & Noble store in Woodinville, Washington. GILLIAN McBRIDE signs copies of her new thriller, BLACK RIBBONS: A MAGGIE DARE MYSTERY!

The author photo on the sign showed a beautiful, haughty-looking woman who could have passed for twenty-five. Gillian hated the photo, but her agent and editor were crazy about it. “The picture says, ‘I’m savvy, I’m smart, and I have a best-seller-in-the-making here,’” her agent, Eve, had told her.

“I think it says, ‘I’m smug, I’m arrogant, and I have absolutely no interests beyond myself, my hair, and what I’m wearing,’” Gillian had countered.

To the photographer’s credit, he had taken about ten years off Gillian’s age (she was thirty-seven), and he’d erased scores of freckles from her face (they came with being a redhead). But he’d failed to capture Gillian’s warmth and vulnerability. The woman seated at the desk, behind a stack of books, looked like the nice, down-to-earth, slightly older sister to that smug ice princess in the author photo.

Gillian wore a lavender silk blouse and black pants. Her shoulder-length, tawny hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she kept a smile fixed on her face.

Some authors had throngs of rabid fans at their signings, roped-off lines of people around the store impatiently waiting for a brief moment with their favorite scribe. Gillian wasn’t one of those authors. She’d been sitting at the desk for over ninety minutes and had sold eight books so far. She’d had one fan show up—a very nice, middle-aged woman named Stella who had read all five of Gillian’s previous thrillers and e-mailed her once in a while. Stella had chatted with her for about ten minutes, but had to rush off to meet a friend. Then Gillian was by herself again. “I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of you,” was what people usually said when they stopped by her table to check out one of her books. But most people didn’t stop at all. They passed by her table and avoided eye contact—as if she were some panhandler on the street.

So Gillian sat there, forcing a smile, and wondering if anybody saw the desperation on her face. It was like eating alone at a fancy restaurant. She felt onstage—and very pathetic. She’d done these author signings dozens of times before, and knew the score. Just keep smiling.

That was what Gillian told herself as she dealt with this new potential customer, a woman in her early twenties with a ratty, brown pullover sweater, blond hair, and heavy eye makeup. She was on her cell phone as she approached Gillian’s desk. She glanced at Black Ribbons, then quickly put it down again. “No way, not if you’re gonna get fucking drunk again tonight,” she said into the phone. She picked up another one of Gillian’s books, and scowled at the back cover. “You do so,” the young woman continued on her cell phone. “Why the fuck should I even plan on doing anything, if you’re gonna be drunk most of the time? I mean it, you have a problem. I’m fucking serious….”

The blonde went through all six of Gillian’s books, barely looking at them. Gillian wondered how many times this cell phone woman said fuck during a given day. She felt like The Invisible Author. Finally, she started drumming her fingers on the desktop and stared up at the girl.

“Well, maybe I need to rethink our relationship,” the blonde was saying into her phone. She suddenly glared at Gillian. “Would you mind your own fucking business? Jesus!” She wandered away from the table. “No, I wasn’t talking to you,” she grumbled into her cell phone. “There’s this stupid woman in the bookstore….”

If I was in a relationship with you, sister, I’d be getting drunk every night too! Gillian wanted to yell at the woman. But she said nothing, and kept smiling.

She saw someone else approaching.

“Are you the author?” asked a middle-aged woman with a stiff-looking helmet of black hair. She adjusted her glasses and picked up a copy of Black Ribbons. “I read three books a week. I haven’t heard of you.”

“Well, I’m Gillian, and—readers like you are my favorite kind of people.” She held out her hand, but the woman was studying the back of Gillian’s book. Gillian slipped her hand back under the table.

“Black Ribbons: A Maggie Dare Mystery,” the woman muttered. “What’s this about anyway?”

“Well, Maggie Dare is a seventy-year-old retired police detective,” Gillian explained. “She’s a ‘very tough old broad.’ This is my second mystery-thriller with Maggie. This time, Maggie’s investigating a series of murders in Western Washington.” The woman said nothing, so Gillian continued. “Um, each time this particular killer abducts a new victim, he ties a black ribbon around a nearby tree, post, or landmark. And the body is always found twenty-four hours later—with a ribbon around the neck, in a pretty bow. It’s not quite as grisly as it sounds. It’s more suspenseful than gory.”

The woman frowned. She put the book down on the table as if it were someone else’s used Kleenex. “I don’t think I care for that at all.”

Gillian kept smiling.

“What about this one?” the woman asked, picking up another book.

“That’s Killing Legend, my first. It came out two years ago.”

“What’s the plot?” she asked, scrutinizing the back cover. “I don’t understand the title.”

“Well, instead of a living legend, this man is a Killing Legend. I was inspired by the rumors after James Dean’s death. People claimed he was still alive, but so horribly disfigured by the auto accident that he’d faked his demise. Anyway, in my book, this legend is a sexy leading man, an overnight sensation in movies. And everyone thinks he’s dead after a car accident. So now, he’s preying on all the people who made his life hell on his way to the top of the Hollywood heap. There’s show business mixed with murder, plus a little—”

Gillian stopped as she noticed the woman shaking her head again. She had that same sour look on her face as she plopped the book down. “I hate stories set in Hollywood.”

Gillian nodded. “Yes, well, it’s not everyone’s taste,” she said lamely.

“What about this one?” the woman asked, picking up another book.

Are you for real? Did you come here to torture me?

Gillian kept smiling and explained the plot of her second thriller, Highway Hypnosis. It was a very creepy tale of a former surgeon who turned killing hitchhikers into big business. He sold the victims’ identities on the black market—as well as their internal organs.

That wasn’t Old Sourpuss’s cup of tea either, Gillian could tell. The woman shook her head and clicked her tongue against her teeth. But before Gillian could thank her for stopping by, the lady sighed and picked up another one of her books. “What’s this about?” she pressed, waving a copy of The Mark of Death.

Now it was Gillian making a face and shaking her head. “Oh, I don’t think you’d like it. My books aren’t for everyone. But thanks for stopping by.” She felt as if she were trying to break up with her and let her down gently: This isn’t working out. It’s not you, it’s me and my books. We’re not a good fit. Move on—please…

The woman scowled at the back cover of The Mark of Death for another moment, then she set the book back down on the desk. “You’re right,” she said. “This one doesn’t look very interesting either. So—where’s the Travel section?”

Fifteen minutes later, Gillian was walking across the mini-mall’s parking lot. The events coordinator and a clerk had bought copies of Black Ribbons, and she’d signed them. Pity purchases, most likely. But she was grateful just the same. They’d asked her to come back when the next book was released, God bless them.

She’d signed at this particular store twice before—on Saturday afternoons. This was her first night signing here, and she hadn’t realized until now that the rest of the mini-mall shut down early. All the other storefronts were dark.

Gillian hiked up the collar to her trench coat as she made her way toward an opening in a row of trees at the far end of the lot. The bus stop was on the other side of those trees.

She still had a few minutes to catch the 8:40 bus to Seattle. At one time, Gillian had owned a car, but not anymore. She’d been forced to sell her Saturn two years ago. Immediately afterward, the man who had made her sell it beat her so severely she’d had bruises on her face, back, and arms for over two weeks.

But Gillian didn’t want to think about that right now. Even though the problem hadn’t quite gone away, she didn’t want to dwell on it. Not tonight.

She had a bus to catch—then a transfer and another forty-minute ride back to Seattle. It was a hell of a long trip merely to sell eleven books, but that came with being a medium-selling author. She glanced back at the bookstore. Maybe for the next book signing she would drive herself here, and find a line of people actually waiting for her. Oh, dream on, Gillian.

The wind howled. Leaves and debris scattered across the parking lot pavement. It was a cold, damp November night, and Gillian could see her breath. There were fewer cars around the farther she moved away from the bookstore. It was also darker at this end of the lot. The opening in the line of trees was just ahead.

Gillian thought she heard something behind her—a clicking noise or footsteps. She looked over her shoulder, and didn’t see anyone. One of the floodlights above was sputtering. Maybe that was what made the strange noise.

As she turned around again, Gillian saw a minivan slowly pull into the lot. Its headlights swept across her, blinding her for a moment. The vehicle headed toward the bookstore, but then it pulled a U-turn. Once again, those headlights were in her eyes.

Then they went off.

The minivan pulled up alongside her. Gillian veered away from it, and picked up her pace. But she didn’t break into a run. She didn’t want them to think she was scared. There was no one else around. She couldn’t see the driver—or anyone inside the car. But the way the minivan inched alongside her, she could tell the driver was looking at her.

Gillian carried a little canister of pepper spray in her purse, but it always took forever to find anything in that satchel. With a shaky hand, she frantically dug into the bag and groped around for the pepper spray. She kept walking toward that opening in the trees, and pretended to ignore the minivan just a few feet away from her. She could hear traffic noise on the other side of the trees up ahead. But would anyone hear her if she screamed?

The minivan picked up speed, then stopped between her and the trees at the edge of the lot.

Gillian stopped too. Suddenly, she couldn’t move. Her feet froze up and became rooted to the pavement. She stared at the driver’s door as it opened.

A tall, gangly man climbed out of the front. The baseball cap he wore cast a shadow over most of his face, so all she could see was his unshaven jaw and a crooked smile. His denim jacket was slightly askew; he had his right arm in the sleeve and the other in a cast. The left side of the jacket was draped over his shoulder, half-covering the bandaged arm.

Gillian thought about Ted Bundy. That was one of his ploys. He sometimes approached his victims with one arm in a cast—and a friendly smile.

Gillian kept searching for the pepper spray in her purse. It was too dark to see anything in the bag, and when she looked up, he was coming toward her. She backed away.

“Pardon me,” the man called. “Mind if I talk to you for a minute?”

Staring at the man, Gillian took another step back. She thought she felt the pepper spray canister at the bottom of her bag.

“Aren’t you Gillian McBride, the author?”

She said nothing.

“I recognized you. Is it too late for an autograph?” He hoisted his bandaged arm. “Think you might sign my cast?”

Gillian hesitated. She heard another door click open, and she glanced over at the minivan. A young girl—about twelve, with a ski jacket and her hair in pigtails—jumped out of the passenger side. “Is it her, Dad?”

Gillian let out a little sigh. As the girl came up to her father’s side, Gillian noticed a well-worn copy of Black Ribbons in her hand.

“The wife is a big fan of yours,” the man explained. “She’s home with the flu, otherwise she’d be here. You really scared her with this new book.”

A hand over her heart, Gillian cracked a smile. “Well, tell your wife you got even with me tonight.”

Gillian autographed the book for the man’s wife, and signed his cast too. Rolling up her coat sleeve, the daughter asked Gillian to autograph her arm. Gillian complied. She talked with them for a few minutes. The man asked if she needed a ride someplace. Gillian lied and said she was fine. As the man and his daughter pulled away in the minivan, Gillian waved. And when she was sure they could no longer see her, she started to cry.

Those few moments with that man and his daughter had made her feel important. Maybe the long bus trip here was worth it after all. So why was she crying?

She’d been doing that a lot lately—when she was sure no one was around to see her.

Gillian found the pepper spray in her purse while fishing out some Kleenex. She dried her eyes at the bus stop.

There was something else in Gillian’s purse—her mail. They’d been late delivering it today, and she’d grabbed it out of her mailbox on her way to catch the bus to Woodinville. Now, on the near-empty 409 back to Seattle, Gillian glanced over her mail—and tried to ignore the unabashed gaze from a creepy, bearded man with a bad toupee, seated in one of the Handicapped Only spots.

Most of the letters were bills, some past due. But she’d also received a postcard from her best friend, Dianne Garrity, vacationing in Palm Springs. She and Dianne had grown up together. As a kid, Dianne had been considered a weirdo because she’d had scoliosis and wore a back-brace through tenth grade. But that didn’t bother Gillian, who was never very athletic or popular anyway. They read each other’s diaries, and Dianne was the first person to tell Gillian that she should be a writer. “I mean it,” Dianne had said back in high school. “You’re going to be a famous author someday.” She was saying the same thing when Gillian was trying to sell her first thriller to scores of uninterested agents and publishers.

Saw “Black Ribbons” in a Walgreens here in Palm Springs, Dianne mentioned in the postcard. You were at eye level, right next to Stephen King—well, okay, NOW you’re there. I moved it.

There was also a letter from her agent. It was a Xerox of the first few paragraphs of a New York Daily News article. Her agent had attached a Post-it. Doesn’t this seem familiar? it said.

The bus went over a few potholes, but Gillian barely noticed. She was studying the headline: POLICE HUNT FOR ‘ZORRO’ KILLER. The article told of a stabbing on Halloween night in New York. A man dressed as Zorro had sliced up a woman in the back of a taxi. The clipping was only a portion of the story, and the victim’s last name had been cut off:…visiting from Portland, 28-year-old Jennifer—

Biting her lip, Gillian set down the news clipping.

The story was familiar, all right. She had written a scene like that in one of her books.

 

He noticed the curtain move in the front window. For the last hour, he hadn’t seen any activity in Gillian McBride’s half of the quaint, cedar-shaked duplex, but he knew the kid was home. Gillian and her son, Ethan, occupied the first floor of the duplex. The woman who lived in the small unit above them hadn’t been home for several days.

The duplex had a certain unkempt charm. Fallen leaves covered the sidewalk in front of the place. Gray with dirty white shutters, the converted house had a park bench on the front porch—between the doorways to the units. The basement had a separate entrance on the side. The light outside the cellar door was activated by a motion detector. There was no garage, which couldn’t have mattered much to Gillian McBride because she had no car. The yard was tiny, but the duplex sat on the edge of a ravine. Through some of the bare trees, he could see St. Mark’s Cathedral, a brick and mortar monstrosity, looming on the other side of the ravine.

He felt as if he knew every inch of Gillian’s place. He’d been watching it—off and on—for the last few days.

Mostly he sat in his parked car across the street, listening to his iPod and playing his Game Boy to relieve the tedium. Every once in a while, he walked around the block to stretch his legs and peek into the windows.

He was halfway down the block when he saw the curtain move in the front window. Then he heard her door open. Ducking behind a wide evergreen, he watched the kid step outside. Gillian’s son, Ethan, would turn fourteen in a few days. He was skinny with wavy brown hair he must have recently cut himself, because the bangs were all askew. Despite a trace of adolescent acne, he was a handsome kid.

Ethan stepped out on the front porch, then looked left and right. He wore a sweatshirt and jeans, and clutched a small, black, plastic bag against his stomach—almost as if he were trying to conceal it. Padding down the porch steps, he crept around the side of the house. The kid seemed to shrink as the light above the basement door automatically went on. He hurried to the garbage cans, opened the lid to one, and dug out a loaded Hefty bag. He dropped the little plastic bag into the receptacle, then loaded the Hefty bag on top of it. After another furtive glance around, he replaced the garbage can lid.

From behind the evergreen, the man watched Ethan hurry back inside the duplex. The curtain in the front window moved again. Obviously, the kid wanted to make sure no one had seen him. If he was concerned about anyone finding what he’d thrown out, Ethan was a bit early. The trash collection at Gillian’s place was every Thursday morning. That gave him two more days to go through that garbage and unearth whatever the kid was hiding.

He saw someone coming up the sidewalk.

It was Gillian, back from her book signing in Woodinville. He’d seen the announcement in the newspapers. He wondered if it was successful.

Clutching the collar of her trench coat, she headed toward her duplex. Even though she was at least half a block away and couldn’t see him, he blew her a kiss.

 

Gillian stopped in her tracks. She stared at the duplex in the distance. The automatic light to the cellar entrance just went off. It was operated by motion detection. What was moving around the basement door?

She quickly reached inside her purse, and found the pepper spray without any trouble this time. As she continued toward the house, Gillian told herself it could have been anything—maybe a raccoon. That was one of the disadvantages of living so close to a ravine. Ethan was home, but it couldn’t have been him. The only things in the cellar were the washer and dryer, and he didn’t even know how to operate them. He couldn’t have been taking out the garbage—not on his own, not without her asking him at least three times to do it.

Approaching the house, she saw no sign of anyone, no raccoons scurrying about. The trees swayed in the autumn breeze and leaves flew up from the sidewalk. Maybe the wind had set off the automatic light.

Gillian took another cautious look around before she ascended the porch steps. She quickly dug her keys out of her purse. As she opened the door, a waft of stale smoke hit her. “Ethan?” she called. “Ethan, are you home?”

He came around from the kitchen. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Were you burning something in here?” she asked, closing the door behind her.

“Oh, um, I—yeah, I tried to start a fire in the fireplace, but I screwed it up,” he said, shrugging. “Sorry. I didn’t know it stunk so much.”

She waved a hand in front of her face. “Well, from now on, maybe you shouldn’t try to have a fire when I’m not here. Okay?” She put her keys and the pepper spray back in her purse, then moved over to the front window and opened it a bit. “Were you outside just a minute ago?”

Ethan quickly shook his head. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Well, something just activated the light by the basement door.” Gillian slipped out of her trench coat. “It gave me a little scare for a minute.”

“Oh, well, I—I think I saw a raccoon out there earlier. How did your book signing go?”

Gillian hung up her coat. “There was a line of five hundred people around the store, and a riot broke out when they ran out of my books. They had to call the cops in.”

“Did you sell ten books at least?” he asked.

On her way into the kitchen, she kissed him on the cheek. “A whopping eleven. Did you get any dinner?”

“I had a DiGiorno.”

“But you had frozen pizza last night.” Gillian peeked into the refrigerator. “There’s a perfectly delicious casserole in here. I told you all you had to do is heat it up. And there’s salad—”

“I just felt like pizza again,” Ethan replied, plopping down at her computer. It was in an alcove just off the kitchen. Gillian’s husband had converted the pantry into a writer’s nook. There was a tiny window with a view of the ravine, a bookshelf full of her books along with tomes about true crimes and serial killers, and framed family photos of Gillian, her husband, and Ethan.

Ethan often used her computer to play video games. She didn’t object. The poor guy had to entertain himself somehow. It was bad enough she left him alone every Thursday night so she could teach her creative writing class at the community college. But now, with the recent release of Black Ribbons, she’d been gone more evenings than she’d been home the last three weeks. She felt as if she’d been neglecting her son for book signings, book club dates, and interviews with newspapers and tiny fifty-watt radio stations all over western Washington State.

Gillian figured she probably wasn’t in line for The Worst Mother Alive Award, but she certainly had a dishonorable mention coming to her. Plus they were practically broke. It was a long wait between royalty checks, and the money she made teaching that creative writing class wasn’t much. Gillian wondered how she would pay those bills in her purse.

She took the casserole out of the refrigerator, peeled back the aluminum-foil cover, and picked at the cold chicken and noodles. She studied Ethan’s profile. The computer screen lit up his handsome, chiseled face. He was getting over his gawky-adolescent phase, and starting to look like his father. Gillian felt a little pang in her stomach.

She hadn’t seen her husband for two years. Neither had Ethan. They didn’t know if he was alive or dead. They rarely talked about him—except in the past tense. But that didn’t mean they never worried or wondered about him.

Gillian put the casserole back in the refrigerator. “So—is your homework done, honey?”

“Almost,” he replied, eyes riveted to the computer screen.

“Did you practice your violin?” He’d been playing for three years now, and was quite accomplished at it.

“Yeah, Mom,” he said, preoccupied. “You got another book signing tomorrow night?”

Gillian sighed. “Yes, over in Redmond. I’m going to the market in the morning. I’ll buy some microwave dinners so you don’t starve.”

“Pick up another couple of DiGiornos while you’re at it, okay?”

“Sure,” she muttered, cracking open the window above the sink. The kitchen smelled of stale smoke too.

Gillian gazed out the window. For a moment, she thought she saw someone in the side yard ducking behind a tree. Was that why the outside light had gone on and off earlier? She kept staring, and finally told herself it was nothing. She was just on edge tonight for some reason. Hell, in the mini-mall’s parking lot, she’d almost pepper-sprayed that poor man in the cast—the husband of a fan, for God’s sakes.

Her thriller-writer’s imagination was working overtime tonight.

Gillian took one last look out the window, and then started fixing a salad for her dinner.

Dear Ms. McBride,

I just finished your new book, BLACK RIBBONS, and I liked it a lot. Very scary! Detective Maggie Dare rocks! I love how she doesn’t take crap from anybody. Did you know there’s a spelling error on page 219? Didn’t you mean ‘alarmed’ instead of ‘alarms’? Thought you should know. Otherwise, it’s a kick-ass book. Keep up the good work.

Sincerely,
Karen Linde

“Well, thank you, Karen,” Gillian said under her breath.

It was 11:15. Wearing a sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms, Gillian sat at her computer with a cup of Earl Grey. The apartment still smelled a bit smoky—especially in the bathroom. She’d noticed it while in there washing her face twenty minutes ago. Ethan had gone to bed, but a telltale strip of light still shone under his closed door.

She had an oldies station playing softly. Janis Ian was singing something depressing. Music to Slit Your Wrist By.

Gillian typed out a cordial reply to the e-mail, which had come through her Web site. It was the only fan letter today. She made sure to apologize for the spelling error.

She checked her regular e-mail, and found a note from her agent:

Hey Gill,

How are you doing on the new outline? I promised your editor we’d have it in his lap by the end of next week. Should I start cracking the whip? We’ll talk soon.

Eve

Gillian e-mailed her agent back, and said the outline was going well. This was a total lie. She didn’t even have an idea yet. “And thanks for sending along that news clipping about the ‘Zorro’ Killer,” she added. “That’s very bizarre & a bit unsettling. I hope they catch him.”

After sending the e-mail, Gillian stared at the computer screen for a minute. She couldn’t stop thinking about that stabbing in New York. She’d been at this very spot when she’d created her own “Zorro” killer.

Now someone had made him real.

Shifting in her chair, Gillian logged onto Amazon.com, selected Books, and typed in The Mark of Death, Gillian McBride. The sales rank was unspectacular, but there were two new reviews. The most recent reviewer, Imalegend2, gave her book two stars, calling it trite and clumsy. But Imalegend2 added: “The masked-man, ‘Zorro’ murder, however, is a shining, inspired moment, an oasis in this otherwise barren piece of pulp literature.”

“Oh, screw you, I-Male-Gender-Two, or whatever your name is,” Gillian muttered. She checked out the other new review. Wanderemik3 gave the book four stars, and summed it up nicely:

Gillian McBride delivers a scary story of a creepy serial killer who believes he’s some kind of superhero. In one scene, he even carves an S on his chest with a razor blade. In another, he disguises himself as Zorro, and crashes a masquerade party. There, he seduces the host’s daughter in the back of a guest’s parked car, and then he stabs her to death….

Digging through her purse, Gillian fished out the partial news clipping her agent had sent. She reread the truncated last line with half of the victim’s name cut off: “…visiting from Portland, 28-year-old Jennifer—”

Frowning, Gillian set the clipping aside. She pulled up the New York Daily News on the Web, then tapped into their archives for November 1st. She found the complete article, and stopped reading when she came to the identity of that twenty-eight-year-old woman who had been stabbed. “Jennifer Gilderhoff,” she whispered. “My God…”

Gillian knew her.

She reached across the desk to her “pending” box, and dug through the unpaid bills, announc. . .