One more.
And then what?
I have the list of cyberbullies from Katherine Frole’s computer. Should I just keep going? They all deserve to die, don’t they? The way I see it, I have two choices. One, I could run and hide after this next murder. Maybe get away with it. Who knows?
Or Two, I keep on killing.
There was a man named Lester Mulner who lived in Framingham, Massachusetts, who posed as a teenage girl to bully his own daughter’s rival to the point where the poor girl committed suicide. I could kill him. I could then kill Thomas Kramer in Framingham and then maybe visit Ellis Stewart in Manchester, Vermont, and just keep going through Frole’s list in what the press would one day undoubtedly label a “killing spree.” I could keep going until I was locked up or killed or stopped in some other way, because the truth is, I won’t stop on my own.
Someone else has to stop me.
I like this plan. Finish this up. Get justice or revenge or whatever you want to label it. And then, when I’m done with her, kill until I’m killed.
I have nothing left to live for anyway.
I’ve lost everything.
I am back at the storage garage. There is no smell yet. I have prepaid for six months in advance. I pull Marnie Cassidy out of the backseat of the car and wrap her body in black plastic garbage bags. I bought a box of fifty heavyweight ninety-five-gallon bags, and I use all fifty and a full roll of duct tape to seal Marnie up. I keep the AC on full blast.
When would they find her?
I don’t know.
Would it be the smell eventually, or would it be that I hadn’t paid my bill?
Again I don’t know and don’t much care. This will be long over by that time.
When I finish wrapping Marnie up, I drag her body to the corner of the storage space. I lay a few blankets on top of her. Then I get in the car and drive back into Manhattan via the Lincoln Tunnel. I don’t bother changing license plates this time. I still have the altered one from when I killed Marnie, but the police aren’t onto me yet. As I predicted, everyone thinks Marnie ran away.
Everyone except Jenn. Desperate Jenn.
I sent her a message not unlike what I did with Marnie.
I told her I could save her. I told her I could save Marnie too. I told her where to meet me.
I head there now to end this.
George Kissell worked out of the US Marshals Office on Walnut Street in Newark. Wilde had simply given his name and asked the receptionist to let Deputy US Marshal George Kissell know he was there and would like to see him. The receptionist asked Wilde to take a seat, but it didn’t take long. George Kissell came out wearing a dirt-brown suit and scowl. He grumbled, “Come with me.”
This Marshals office, like most, was in the federal courthouse. They took the wide stairwell down to the first floor, every sound echoing off the marble, and ended up back out on the streets of Newark. When they were near the curb and away from all possible prying ears, Kissell said, “What do you want?”
“Why did you pretend to be FBI?”
“I didn’t pretend. You assumed. Why are you here?”
“We both know.”
Kissell reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He stuck one in his mouth and lit it with a gold lighter. He took a deep inhale and let it out. “The FBI and US Marshals are both federal law enforcement agencies,” he said, as though reading from a cue card. “We often cooperate on important cases.”
“The US Marshals Office also runs the witness protection program.”
Kissell was balding, but he had grown the side hairs long and plastered them down in a comb-over that would scream comb-over in pitch darkness. He continued: “The US Marshals is the oldest federal law enforcement agency in the United States. We protect judges, police courthouses, apprehend federal fugitives, house and transport federal prisoners, and yes, we run the Witness Security Program, known as WITSEC.”
“You asked me about Daniel Carter, my biological father.”
Kissell said nothing.
“I’ve been trying to reach him,” Wilde continued.
“Have you now?”
“He’s nowhere to be found.”
“As my teenage daughter likes to say, ‘Sounds like a you problem.’”
“I could keep looking,” Wilde said.
“I guess you could.”
“I could up the noise. Go public. Do you think that’s a good idea, Deputy Marshal Kissell?”
“You mean do more than send private eyes to his residence and place of business and have your old partner Rola Naser knock on his door yesterday?” He shrugged. “Not sure what more you can do.”
Their eyes met. Wilde felt the tingle in his veins.
“What do you want, Wilde?”
“I want to know my father better.”
“Don’t we all?” Kissell took another deep inhale, held it for a moment, and then let the smoke out with so much joyful release it almost felt like a sex act. “Tell you what. I’m not going to pretend I don’t know who you’re talking about because that’s a waste of time. You already know too much. You also know I’m not going to confirm or deny.”
“I didn’t mean to put him or his family in danger,” Wilde said. “I want you to know — I want him to know — that I get it now. It’s okay. I really did find him via a DNA site. But I won’t pursue it anymore.”
Kissell took the cigarette out of his mouth and stared at it like it held some of the answers. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Did Daniel Carter — or whatever his real name is — lie to me?”
Nothing. Had Wilde expected more?
“Does he really not know who my mother is or why I ended up in the woods?”
Kissell made a production of checking his watch. “I better get going.”
“I do have one request.”
Wilde handed him a note.
Kissell said, “What’s this?”
“It’s for him. I’m going to stop by with sealed notes like this every once in a while. You and I can meet out here, if you want. You’ll say, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ but you’ll take the notes from me. You’ll deliver them. Maybe sometimes, he’ll give you a sealed note to bring back to me. Or maybe not. Either way, we are going to do this.”
Kissell looked out past him.
“Do we understand each other?” Wilde asked.
Kissell slapped Wilde on the back. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Chapter Forty-One
I park. Just like last time. I just need to kill Jenn. If they catch me immediately after that, so be it. If they have the same car on tape parked in the same remote area, so be it. It’ll be over by then. Any additional murders will be gravy.
I have the gun in my hand.
I keep it low and out of sight. Jenn will be here in approximately ten minutes. I wonder how to play it. Should I kill her fast? Three shots. My modus operandi. I bet the forensic serial-killer profilers will come up with some great theories on why I shot them three times. The truth is, of course, there is no rhyme or reason. Or at least not a very interesting reason. When I shot Henry McAndrews, my first kill, I fired three times. Why? I can’t be sure, but I think that’s when I eventually paused or wondered whether that was enough. Anyway, it was random. I could have shot him two times or four times. But it was three. So now I’m stuck with that number.
No great insight there, profilers. Sorry.
I close my eyes for a few seconds. I think about the gun in my hand.
I want to ease this pain.
That’s how it started, isn’t it? With pain. Pain is all-consuming. It robs you of reason. You just want it to end. I thought that killing those who had done such harm would ease the pain.