“Show him,” Barker instructed the detective.
The detective reached into the bag and brought out two items of clothing, a white V-neck tunic and white trousers. Hawkins stood up, pulled a pair of gloves out of his jacket pocket, slipped them on and asked to examine the clothing. No identifying marks, but the lack of quality spoke volumes. “State issued,” he concluded. He passed the clothing back to the detective who returned them to the bag.
“Get on the phone to Smith’s Grove and confirm the match,” Barker said to Hawkins.
“In the meantime, we have to let people know, sir.”
Barker was already shaking his head. “Not until we have confirmation. I don’t want the media foaming at the mouth and dragging the name of this town through the headlines again.”
Hawkins bit his tongue before expressing his first frustrated thought, which would have included a choice profanity or two. Like it or not, Barker was his boss. He proceeded diplomatically. “I strongly disagree, sir,” he began. “Let this be my case. If this is who we think it is, we have one order of business. Hunt this man down.”
“And we will,” Barker said. “Soon as we confirm he’s the one responsible for this… mess.”
With a soft sigh of resignation, Hawkins turned away. The man lived in a state of denial, delaying the inevitable. Ignoring this problem wouldn’t make it go away. At least if they made an announcement that Myers was loose in town, everyone would be on the lookout for an older man dressed in a gas-station mechanic’s coveralls. Instead, they’d have to wait to see where he would strike next.
His gaze drifted to the last place he’d seen Laurie Strode, but he no longer saw any sign of her. Good, he thought, maybe she took my advice after all.
After the policeman informed her of Hawkins’ instruction to go home, Laurie decided to have a word with him. She had as much right to stand there as any of the other gawkers. And even though other Smith’s Grove inmates had escaped when the transport bus ran off the road, Laurie had no doubt who was responsible for these murders.
She had survived his last killing spree and, from where she stood, history had already begun to repeat itself. How many had he killed at this service station? From what she could tell from beyond the wrong side of the police tape, there was at least one victim in the restroom, another in the office, and a third in the garage.
She needed to know more, to find out if the murders were connected or random. Why had he come to this specific service center? In broad daylight, no less. Maybe it had something to do with the Ford parked at the self-service pump.
After Hawkins told her to leave via his intermediary, she initially backed away, until she got lost a bit in the crowd, then she worked her way up the line to get a better view of the crime scene in the garage. She recognized Sheriff Barker. The other man with him was either a detective or a crime-scene tech. Considering he wore a suit jacket, she was betting on the former. When that man showed Hawkins clothing from an evidence bag, it confirmed her fears that Michael had left behind his Smith’s Grove hospital garb. That he’d left those clothes in the garage indicated that he’d switched clothes there. From what she remembered of this place, all the mechanics, gas-pump jockeys and clerks wore the same dark coveralls.
Even without the state hospital clothes, he would stand out.
20
By the time Karen picked up groceries and was returning home, the afternoon sky had begun to dim. It was not quite sunset, but younger children had already taken to the streets. She glanced around at the various costumes: a mummy, a princess, a firefighter, a vampire, a cowboy, a pirate—accompanied by his mother who also wore a pirate costume—assorted superheroes, and a taller kid dressed as a wizard with a conical hat and a robe decorated with stars and crescent moons. Wary of a kid potentially darting across the street, she slowed her station wagon to school-zone speed and crept along until she made the turn into her own driveway.
As she glanced out the rear window, someone slapped the hood of her car with enough force to startle her. She caught a brief glimpse of an older kid dressed in a black cloak and hood, wearing a ghoulish rubber mask that hid his identity. Brazenness and rude behavior born of anonymity. Cross-reference the comments section on most of the Internet.
Next time, wear a troll costume, she thought, chuckling as her nervous reaction waned.
Karen walked to the rear of the car, opened the hatchback, and grabbed her two bags of groceries, hoping to make one trip into the house. A young cowboy, ninja, and skeleton walked past her, a few steps ahead of one of their parents.
“Happy Halloween!” the cowboy called.
“Trick or treat!” the skeleton said.
Nodding, the ninja remained silent, maybe an attempt to stay in character.
One boy carried a canvas sack for his candy, hand-drawn pictures of bats, skulls, bones, and tombstones decorating one side, along with the misspelled CEMATERY in all capital letters.
“Hi, kids,” she replied as she wrangled the two bags in her arms after closing the hatchback. “Have fun.”
With her jacket on, they wouldn’t see her Christmas sweater, which was just as well. She had no desire to stand around discussing why her family failed to embrace this popular holiday.
On the porch, she set down one bag to unlock the front door. Inside, she found the upstairs hallway light on, illuminating the staircase, but the house was silent. “Ray?” she called.
No answer.
Walking into the house, listening for any sound, she neglected to close the front door behind her and made her way to the kitchen. “Allyson? Anyone home?”
As she set the grocery bags on the counter, she heard a sound from upstairs. Halfway between a creak and a squeak. Maybe a random sound of the house settling. Or possibly something more. She thought about the anonymous ghoul kid slapping the hood of her car and started to wonder if that had been a postscript to vandalism or theft inside the house—or maybe a warning to his compatriots to get out…?
Leaving the kitchen, she walked slowly back toward the stairs so as not to make a sound of her own while she listened for more noises upstairs. Near the stairs, she craned her neck to look up the staircase to the hallway—and heard footfalls above her.
Someone’s in the house!
A moment later, she noticed movement at the periphery of her vision as someone stepped into the open doorway. Her head whipped around, heart racing—
Ray.
“Karen?”
She exhaled in temporary relief, raised a finger to her lips, warning him to keep quiet. He mouthed a question and she pointed to the second floor. When she turned back toward the staircase, her gaze raised to the top of the steps, a figure stepped into view, holding a handgun—
—Laurie!
Her mother aimed the revolver at the bottom of the staircase.
“Bang,” Laurie said matter-of-factly. “You’re dead.”
Karen gasped. “You scared me,” she said, incensed. “What are you doing in our house?”
Every time Karen saw her with the sheathed hunting knife strapped to the belt of her jeans, she absurdly imagined her mother hunting squirrels and rabbits and skinning them with the blade. When has she ever had to use that knife? The thought usually made her chuckle. Not this time. She was too angry to find any amusement at all in her mother’s eccentricities and obsessions.
Laurie stood there, unapologetic. “Side window was unlocked,” she explained. “No security system. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between your ignorance and your stupidity.”