“It’s not Glen in the motor home,” she finally told Mark. “It’s Richard Kraven.”
“Richard Kraven is dead,” Mark said flatly, his eyes staring out the windshield of the car he was guiding toward Highway 520. Kevin had already told him where they’d gone fishing, and how they’d gotten there, and Mark was pretty certain that whatever Glen was doing, he was following a pattern. When the motor home was found, he was sure it would be very close to where Glen had taken Edna Kraven just a few days ago and Kevin only this morning.
“His body’s dead,” Anne agreed. Then she related the story of Vaslav Nijinsky, the story that Richard Kraven himself had told her years earlier.
“So even if Nijinsky wasn’t a nutcase — and I’m not saying he wasn’t — how does it relate? Glen isn’t into out-of-body experiences, is he?” Mark asked.
“Glen was dead for almost two minutes,” Anne said, her voice as flat as the detective’s had been a moment earlier. “The morning he had his heart attack, they lost him in the ambulance on the way to Group Health. They had to stop so both of the medics could work on him. It’s all in the records, Mark. They used CPR, drugs, and the defibrillator. And it happened at almost exactly nine A.M., Pacific Time.”
Mark glanced at her. Pacific Time? What was that all about? But before the question was fully formed in his mind, he knew the answer. Nine A.M. Pacific Time was noon Eastern Time.
The exact moment that Richard Kraven had been executed.
Blakemoor remembered the words Anne had uttered only a few moments before, quoting what Richard Kraven had said in one of the interviews she’d reread only a little while earlier: “Nijinsky stopped dancing because he thought another spirit was entering his body while he was out of it.” Repeating the words to himself, he still couldn’t put them together into anything he could understand. “Anne, it doesn’t make any sense,” he began, but his voice had lost a little of its confidence.
“Doesn’t it? What about all the stories you hear? All the people who have had near-death experiences? They’re all the same, Mark. They leave their body, and they float above it. They see what’s happening, and they hear what people are saying. Some of them feel like they have a choice about coming back or not.…”
Her voice trailed off, but Mark Blakemoor already knew where she was going. “And if Richard Kraven were dying at the same instant,” he said, “and wanted to come back badly enough—”
“He hated me,” Anne burst out. “I could see it in his eyes, I could hear it in his voice.” She kept talking, telling Mark what she’d pieced together from the old interviews, what had finally come to make sense. “He was different from other serial killers,” she finally finished. “He wasn’t killing them because he wanted them dead, Mark. He was trying to figure out how to bring them back to life after they died.”
“That doesn’t account for Rory and Edna,” Mark countered.
“He was punishing Rory. And I suspect he just plain hated his mother. Besides, his motive is different now. He’s finished experimenting. Now he’s getting even. With me.” She stared out at the storm that was raging around them as they left 520 and started through Redmond, working their way farther east, following the route Kevin had described. “Oh, God,” Anne sighed, “why can’t they find him?”
“They will,” the detective replied. “Or we will. One way or another, we’re going to get Heather back.” But even as he said the words, Mark Blakemoor wasn’t sure he believed them. And he sure didn’t believe the weird story Anne had just told him.
At least, he didn’t think he did.
CHAPTER 67
The rain slashed out of the sky in a torrent that cascaded off the motor home’s windshield in a rippling sheet, distorting everything outside almost to the point of invisibility. Now all that Heather could see were the wavering headlights of oncoming cars, but even those were getting fewer, and farther between. It was as if the night and the storm had conspired to drive everyone but them off the road, and the farther from home they drove, the more frightened Heather became. “Can’t we stop?” she pleaded. “Please?”
Richard Kraven let his eyes leave the road ahead just long enough to glance quickly at Heather Jeffers. Her features were barely visible, but as a westbound truck bore down on them from the opposite direction, her face was lit for a quick second.
It was enough: Kraven could clearly see the terror in the child’s expression, and even as he shifted his attention back to the road, he savored the fear he had instilled in her.
She knew something was wrong, knew she was in danger.
But she didn’t yet know what danger lay ahead, and that uncertainty — and the added terror it produced in Heather — made the moment even sweeter for Richard Kraven. His one regret was that Anne was not here, too.
If only he could talk to her; tell her what he was going to do to her daughter, make her suffer even more from the foreknowledge of what Heather would feel.
If only he could watch Anne’s face as he carefully cut Heather’s chest open to expose her heart.
If only he could hear Anne scream as he held her daughter’s throbbing heart in his hand, and listen to her pleas as he slowly squeezed that heart to a stop.
If only he could witness her pain and helplessness as he went about his work, just as she’d savored his as she hounded him until finally they’d locked him in a cell and made him sit alone until they’d electrocuted him. He hadn’t let her see how much he’d suffered, of course. He’d hidden his terror of the cell, even hidden his terror of the electric chair. But although he’d kept his fears hidden, he knew she’d sensed them, knew she’d pleasured in them.
Tonight, though, she would take her punishment. Tonight, and for the rest of her life.
Lightning blazed across the sky, instantly followed by a thunderclap that shook the motor home, and Richard Kraven felt a thrill of pleasure as a tiny cry escaped Heather Jeffers’s lips.
“Please,” he heard her beg. “Please can’t we stop? We’re going to get killed!”
A sign loomed ahead, its face glowing green in the glare of the headlights, and though the water sluicing over the windshield prevented him from reading the letters, he knew what the sign said.
The exit for Snoqualmie Falls was only a little way ahead. Moving his foot off the accelerator, Richard Kraven gently touched the brake, and the motor home slowed.
Heather, her hands clamped tight to the armrests of the passenger seat, tried to catch a glimpse of the sign as they passed under it, but the flash of lightning had momentarily blinded her, and her pupils had not yet readjusted to the darkness of the night.
He hadn’t spoken to her for a long time, hadn’t even looked her way for so long that she was starting to wonder if he’d forgotten she was even there.
What was wrong? What had happened to her father?
This morning, when he and Kevin had taken off to go fishing, he’d seemed fine. Was it really possible for someone to go crazy in just a few hours? She thought about Kevin. Where was he? Had her father taken her brother home before coming to Rayette’s to pick her up?
She stole another glance at the face lit only by the glow of the dash lights. Though the features were still recognizable as those of her father, they had taken on an evil cast that chilled her blood. And when he’d glanced at her a moment ago, she had had the terrible feeling that he was planning what he was going to do to her.
As the motor home left the interstate, Heather leaned forward, searching for something — anything — that would give her a clue as to where they were. If they were coming to a town — even just a gas station — she could make a run for the door before he could stop the van and jump out, even if it was still moving.