“Right, right, of course! Scott pulled an extra dollar from his wallet and handed it to her. He walked out of the bookstore into typical western Washington weather—cool, misty drizzle. He hurried to the cab of the pickup and flipped open his new purchase. It didn’t take him long to figure out how it worked. A listing of all streets were in the back, along with what map pages they appeared on.
Within thirty minutes, he was parked across the street from the house listed for Gary Ridgway in the phone book. It was a smallish house, one story, one-car garage. There were no cars in the driveway and no lights on inside.
Scott sat watch on the house all morning and afternoon with no luck. The house was located in a rural part of town, so there weren’t a lot of inquisitive neighbors out walking their dogs and wondering who he was and why he was there.
Scott’s patience was rewarded at 5:45, when an old pickup pulled into the driveway. Scott slipped low in his seat so he could barely see over the steering wheel. Gary Ridgway emerged from the truck, glanced around, unlocked his front door, and disappeared inside.
I’ve got the right place. I know he was married to three different women, but I don’t know when. I don’t want to go charging in and find him enjoying a cozy domestic scene with his wife and scare her half to death.
Scott sat and watched the house for another hour, but nothing changed. Finally, he started the Luv and eased away from his parking spot. He drove to a little café for dinner, then returned. Still no change.
For the next three days, Scott drove by the house at odd hours. He never saw another vehicle besides Ridgway’s pickup, and he never saw another person.
Over the weekend, Ridgway’s schedule became more unpredictable, coming and going at odd hours, which concerned Scott. No one knew exactly where the Green River Killer had taken his victims, but one popular theory was that he had brought many of them to his home and killed them there.
Scott decided to stakeout the house and follow him if he left. He parked a block-and-a-half up from Ridgway’s house and kept an eye on his truck through binoculars. Time dragged and eventually Scott nodded off. When he woke with a start, the pickup was gone.
He glanced at his watch. Just past midnight.
Where does your friendly neighborhood serial killer go in the middle of a Saturday night? Cruising for victims, probably.
Kicking himself, Scott threw the Luv into gear and drove down the hill in search of Ridgway. After a few miles, he realized it was a lost cause. He pulled into a 7-11, got a large coffee, and returned to his same parking spot.
Hours passed, but Scott didn’t nod off again. At a quarter past four, Ridgway’s pickup rolled up the road and into his driveway. The truck sat idling for two, three, four minutes. Finally, Ridgway and a woman dressed in high heels, a tube top and a neon green miniskirt emerged and went in the front door.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Adrenaline spiked through Scott McKenzie. He sat bolt upright.
Shit! This wasn’t the way I wanted this to go down.
He fumbled around in the cab of the truck, grabbed his pack, then ran for the house.
He slowed as he approached the front door. The porch light was on, but the bulb was weak and barely illuminated anything. Scott melted into the shadows along the side of the house. He tried to look in the windows, but the blinds were pulled snug.
He reached the front door and gently tried the knob. Locked tight.
Scott glanced around, saw all was quiet in the neighborhood. He slunk along the deep shadows that ringed the house and ran into a tall cedar fence that marked the back yard. The gate had a piece of string hanging through a hole. He tugged on it and the gate latch clicked open. He hurried through and found the back door.
It was locked as tight as the front door. Scott put his ear against it and listened, but heard nothing but silence.
Nothing for it. He might be killing her right now. Gonna have to break it down.
Scott unslung his backpack and set it beside the door. He backed up four paces, then ran forward and slammed his shoulder into the center of the door.
The frame split slightly, the blow reverberated through the entire house, but the door held. Scott bounced off and fell onto the muddy ground.
Before he could pick himself up, the door flung open and an enraged Gary Ridgway screamed, “What the hell is going on out here?”
Scott launched himself from his kneeling position. His shoulder hit Ridgway dead center, driving him backward into the house. Scott’s momentum carried him right along and they both landed in a heap in what turned out to be the laundry room.
They scuffled in the darkness of the room for a few seconds, then Scott was able to disentangle himself. He retreated to the back door and reached inside his pack. His fingers closed around his baton. He flicked it open and jumped back inside.
Ridgway was gone.
Scott charged after him, but the house was dark and he stumbled against a piece of furniture in the living room and went down in a heap.
A woman screamed, but Scott had no idea if it was because Ridgway was killing her or if she was afraid of Scott, the sudden intruder. Scott picked himself up, limping slightly and followed the sound of the scream.
He ran down a narrow hallway, seeking Ridgway. As he moved past an open door, Ridgway stabbed at him with a hunting knife, slashing at his side.
Scott cried out, but instinctively swung his baton, catching Ridgway flush in the face, shattering his glasses and smashing his nose.
Scott didn’t wait to see how badly he’d been stabbed, but pressed his advantage. He delivered a vicious front kick that caught Ridgway in the groin. He fell to the ground and Scott was on him.
Ridgway was blinded by the blood spraying from his ruined nose, but he thrashed around under Scott’s strong hold, desperately trying to break free.
Scott swung the baton, slamming it against Ridgway’s head again and again.
Ridgway lapsed toward unconsciousness. That was the opening Scott needed. He unsheathed his karambit and slid it up under Ridgway’s chin and into his brain. Warm blood sprayed over Scott’s face. He jammed the knife up with all his strength, then rolled off him.
From the other room, he heard the woman’s voice—loud and near-hysterical.
“I don’t know what address I’m at. I’m at someone else’s house.” Her voice rose again, becoming almost unintelligible. “He’s killing him, I can hear it!”
Scott walked out of the room, wiping his knife against his jeans and slipping it back into the sheath. He remembered his baton and turned around to retrieve it. It had rolled under a desk and he had to flip the overhead light on to locate it. He avoided looking at the corpse of Gary Ridgway and flipped the light back off.
He staggered back out of the room and waves of pain from the wound in his side washed over him.
He moved down the hall, leaving a long, bloody streak on the wall. The woman stared at him, covered in blood and panting. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. She ran for the front door, fumbled with the lock, then fled, high heels tapping a staccato rhythm against the sidewalk.
Through the open door, Scott heard the faraway wail of sirens. Someone in the neighborhood had heard the ruckus and called the police.
Scott wanted to go through the house and wipe down anything he might have touched, but he knew he was running out of time. He stumbled to the back door, grabbed his pack and hurried around to the open gate.