Black Lightning Part 18

CHAPTER 35.

The man called in sick for the second day in a row. He'd intended to go to work this morning, for even though they didn't appreciate him at Boeing, he still took his job seriously.

Just as he took everything seriously.

But when he got home last night, he'd been far too excited to go to sleep right away. Instead of going to bed, he'd stayed up, reliving the event in his memory over and over again.

Relishing the memory of being in Joyce Cottrell's house.

Of waiting for her.

Of watching her undress.

Of killing her, and possessing her.

And finally, he'd relished the memory of the feeling he'd had as he carried her through the night. Bearing her out of her house and up to the park, the man had felt a freedom and exhilaration he'd never experienced before. He'd known known no one was going to see him as he carried her body through the darkness to the park, known it as surely as he knew he was going to kill Joyce Cottrell from the first moment he saw her. It was in those last moments when he'd held her in his arms in the darkness that the man finally felt complete. For the first time-much more than with Shawnelle Davis-he'd experienced the sheer sense of power and ecstasy that came with extinguishing another life. Joyce Cottrell had truly belonged to him, taken like a trophy, dying at his hands like the prey of a hunter. no one was going to see him as he carried her body through the darkness to the park, known it as surely as he knew he was going to kill Joyce Cottrell from the first moment he saw her. It was in those last moments when he'd held her in his arms in the darkness that the man finally felt complete. For the first time-much more than with Shawnelle Davis-he'd experienced the sheer sense of power and ecstasy that came with extinguishing another life. Joyce Cottrell had truly belonged to him, taken like a trophy, dying at his hands like the prey of a hunter.

He hadn't even tried to hide her body.

Indeed, that was why he'd taken it to the park, to make certain it was discovered early in the morning, when the joggers came out to run the path around the reservoir.

He'd left the park from the south side, walking down Twelfth Avenue to Aloha, then cutting over to Fourteenth. He'd stayed away from the bright lights of Fifteenth Avenue. After he'd deposited the body in the shrubs, he lost the feeling of power, of invincibility, and from then on ducked from one deeply shadowed area to another, feeling as if the light of the streetlamps were trying to expose him. The thick red stains on his clothes had gleamed brightly, and when it started to rain while he was still two blocks from home, he slowed his pace, letting the water wash the blood from his face and hands. Coming at last to the corner of Sixteenth and Thomas, he had to resist the temptation to step into the emergency room and see who had replaced Joyce Cottrell at the reception desk. But resist it he had, knowing that if the person even looked up, the sight of his soaked hair and bloodstained clothing would not be forgotten within a minute or two. In the morning, when the body was discovered, the first place the police would come would be here, to question whoever had relieved Joyce Cottrell, and the person would remember him.

So he pa.s.sed the emergency room by, slipping instead into the musty, deserted lobby of the building in which he lived, making his way silently to his studio on the second floor.

In the morning, someone would find the body, and Anne Jeffers would report it in the Herald Herald. This time it was her next-door neighbor he'd killed. This time, the b.i.t.c.h would put it on the front page.

The front page, where he belonged.

He'd stayed up all night, reveling in the remembered ecstasy of the killing. By dawn he knew he would be too tired to go to work. Too tired, and too excited. He waited until precisely six, the time he normally got up, and then called the plant, telling them he was feeling better than yesterday but that he wasn't well enough yet to come to work. They told him to take as much time as he needed. And why wouldn't they? After all, he wasn't like some of the others at work who called in sick every time they wanted to take an extra day off. This was only the second time he'd ever called in sick at all.

The call finished, he left his apartment and went over to the 7-Eleven on Fifteenth to get a cup of coffee and the first edition of the Herald Herald. After all, it was possible that someone-perhaps one of the perverts who hung out in certain parts of the park at night-had found the body even before the joggers were out. He scanned the front page, a.s.suaging his disappointment by telling himself that even if the body had been found right away, they might not have had time to get a story in the earliest edition. Still, he paged quickly through the whole paper, scanning each page.

Nothing.

But by the time he got back to his apartment, he wondered if he might have missed something, so he went through the paper again, this time studying each page carefully. When he turned to the last page, he felt a kind of relief. If he wasn't going to be on the front page, it was better not to be in the paper at all.

He turned on the television, thinking there might be a story on the morning news, then shut it off, afraid one of his neighbors might hear it and wonder why he was watching the news so early.

He began pacing nervously around the apartment. How soon would the next edition of the paper be out?

What if no one had found the body? If someone had found it and called the police, wouldn't there have been sirens when the cops went up to the park?

He hadn't heard any sirens.

When his cheap digital watch-his mother's lousy Christmas present last year-finally told him it was eight, he turned on the radio, tuning it to KIRO.

Endless talk about a press conference the President was going to be holding later that day.

The man went back to pacing the stained avocado carpeting that covered his floor, and wondered if anybody had found the body yet.

Maybe he should call the police himself.

He reached for the phone, then changed his mind. If he was going to do that, he'd better use a pay phone.

And not one near his house.

Maybe one over on Broadway. Or maybe he should even go downtown.

That was it. A phone down on First Avenue, where no one ever looked at anyone else. He was just about to leave, was just reaching out to switch off the radio, when he finally heard it: This report just in. A body has been found in the brush near the reservoir in Volunteer Park. In a bizarre coincidence, the nude and mutilated corpse was discovered by Seattle Herald Seattle Herald reporter Anne Jeffers, well-known nationally for her coverage of the series of killings reputed to have been committed by Seattleite Richard Kraven. Police are withholding identification of the woman pending notification of relatives. More details at the top of the hour. In other stories... reporter Anne Jeffers, well-known nationally for her coverage of the series of killings reputed to have been committed by Seattleite Richard Kraven. Police are withholding identification of the woman pending notification of relatives. More details at the top of the hour. In other stories...

The man was no longer listening. It was even better than he'd hoped for-Anne Jeffers herself had found the body! Now there was no question it would make the front page. Soon-very soon-he'd be famous. But of course for a while he wouldn't be able to enjoy seeing his name in the paper. After all, they didn't yet know who had killed Joyce Cottrell. And for a while-he wasn't sure yet exactly how long-he'd make sure they didn't find out who did.

Not until he'd killed at least two more people.

Maybe even three.

The newscaster's words still echoing in his head, the man thought feverishly. How soon should he strike again?

A month?

A week?

Once again he felt the rush he experienced as he'd ravaged Joyce Cottrell's body, and now he shivered in antic.i.p.ation. Perhaps he wouldn't wait even a week. Perhaps, now that he understood the pure joy and power of the act of killing, he'd strike again within a few days.

If he could find the right victim.

The man was still savoring the feeling, still reveling in the exaltation of what he'd done, when the phone rang. His hand trembling, he picked it up.

"Is that you?" he heard his mother's voice demand. "Why aren't you at work?"

The man felt his exhilaration begin to fade. "I called in sick, Mama."

"Well, I know that," that," his mother told him. his mother told him.

Why couldn't she use his name? Why couldn't she ever ever use his name, unless she was criticizing him to someone else? use his name, unless she was criticizing him to someone else?

"They told me that at Boeing," she went on. "Did you hear the radio this morning? That reporter found a body in Volunteer Park."

As the man listened numbly, his mother talked on and on. She was talking about his body, the woman he'd he'd killed, but she wasn't talking about killed, but she wasn't talking about him! him!

Well, maybe one of these days he'd just stop her from talking about anything at all.

CHAPTER 36.

Glen hadn't intended to waste two hours of the morning gossiping with his neighbors about Joyce Cottrell's death, but that was the way it turned out. When the first police car arrived to set up the yellow tape around Joyce's property, only a couple of people crossed the street to watch. Within ten minutes, though-and not merely coincidentally with the arrival of two more blue-and-whites and one unmarked sedan whose very plainness proclaimed it a police vehicle-a dozen people were cl.u.s.tered on the sidewalk. One of them finally came up and knocked on the Jefferses' front door. It was Marge Hurley, whose family had moved in across the street and three doors down four years ago. Marge had been unsuccessfully attempting to organize block parties ever since, as though operating under the illusion that Capitol Hill was the same kind of cozy cul-de-sac which she claimed to be fleeing when she left the great suburban mora.s.s of Lake Washington's Eastside.

Refusing to accept a simple statement that Anne had found Joyce Cottrell's body in Volunteer Park that morning, Marge drew Glen first out onto the porch, then into the midst of the crowd on the sidewalk. There, he found himself repeating the tale while his neighbors, having received no information from the police inside the house, proceeded to speculate about what might have happened. That Joyce Cottrell had been the neighborhood's best-known eccentric for years did not stand her in good stead now that she had been murdered. Her neighbors disa.s.sembled her character bit by bit, until soon someone suggested that she'd been dealing in drugs (perhaps stolen from the pharmacy at Group Health?) or perhaps even in p.o.r.nography-now, that that would certainly explain why she kept people out of her house! Once all the permutations of Joyce's possible venality had been thoroughly explored, speculation turned to the matter of who might have killed her. Immediate neighbors were instantly dismissed: "We all would certainly explain why she kept people out of her house! Once all the permutations of Joyce's possible venality had been thoroughly explored, speculation turned to the matter of who might have killed her. Immediate neighbors were instantly dismissed: "We all know know each other in this neighborhood," Marge Hurley insisted after introducing herself to the dozen people she'd never met before. each other in this neighborhood," Marge Hurley insisted after introducing herself to the dozen people she'd never met before.

At last, tired of the gossip and guesswork, Glen retreated to the quiet of his house, only to hear the doorbell ring a few minutes later. He ignored it at first, a.s.suming it was Marge Hurley wanting him to repeat his tale of the body's discovery one more time, but the ringing was insistent. Finally he opened the door. A man with a police badge stood on the porch.

The man smiled. "So we meet at last." When Glen only looked at him blankly, the smile faltered and the man reddened slightly. "You are are Glen Jeffers?" Glen nodded, but still said nothing. "I'm Detective Blakemoor. Mark Blakemoor?" Glen Jeffers?" Glen nodded, but still said nothing. "I'm Detective Blakemoor. Mark Blakemoor?"

Finally, Glen got it. Pulling the door open, he gestured the detective into the foyer. "Anne's friend," he said. His eyes flicked toward the house next door and the crowd of onlookers, smaller now, whose attention had momentarily shifted from Joyce Cottrell's house to the Jefferses'. "But I a.s.sume this isn't a social call."

"I wish it were." Mark Blakemoor sighed. "I'm afraid I have to ask you a few questions about last night."

Glen nodded, and led the detective to the kitchen, where he poured them each a cup of coffee. "I'm not supposed to be drinking this, and I'm counting on you not to tell Anne. Deal?"

Mark Blakemoor felt himself blush, but Glen seemed not to notice. "Deal," he agreed, accepting the coffee. "Basically, I just need to know if you heard anything last night."

Glen hesitated. Instead of answering the question directly, he asked one of his own. "What time?"

Blakemoor shrugged. "No particular time," he said. "But we know the Cottrell woman left work at eleven, and walked home. Even if she stopped for coffee, she would have gotten home by midnight, probably a half hour earlier. So let's say any time after eleven-fifteen."

Still Glen hesitated, remembering the image of Joyce Cottrell that had come into his mind as soon as he'd heard a woman's body had been found in the park. Then he shook his head. "I wish I could help you, but I don't think I can. Was she killed in the house?"

"Upstairs, in her bedroom," Blakemoor told him. "There aren't any signs of a forced entry, but that doesn't mean much. A lot of people hide keys around their houses, and a whole lot of creeps know exactly where to look for them. What about friends? Did she have many?"

"None at all, that I know of," Glen replied. "If you talked to any of the people out on the sidewalk, you must already know that Joyce was an odd bird."

Mark Blakemoor's expression gave no clue to his thoughts. "Odd?" he asked blandly. "How do you mean?"

"Just-well, odd." odd." Glen floundered, wishing he hadn't used the word. "She was the kind of woman you a.s.sumed was living in a house full of trash. You know-saving everything, letting stuff pile up. She never seemed to go anywhere except work, and she sure never invited anyone into the house." He shrugged helplessly. "I guess we just a.s.sumed..." he began again, but his voice trailed off. Glen floundered, wishing he hadn't used the word. "She was the kind of woman you a.s.sumed was living in a house full of trash. You know-saving everything, letting stuff pile up. She never seemed to go anywhere except work, and she sure never invited anyone into the house." He shrugged helplessly. "I guess we just a.s.sumed..." he began again, but his voice trailed off.

"Well, you a.s.sumed wrong," Blakemoor said, remembering the pristine condition of the interior of the house.

Pristine, anyway, except for the bloodstains. He had found them not only in the bedroom, where it was obvious that Joyce Cottrell had been killed and partially disemboweled, but through most of the rest of the house as well. The killer had made no attempt to keep her body from dripping blood as he carried her from the bedroom down the stairs, through the dining room and kitchen to the utility room, then out the back door. From there on, the rain had washed the trail away. "If anything, she was a neat freak."

"So much for Anne's and my judgment of character, huh?"

"A lot of people aren't what they seem to be," Mark Blakemoor observed. "But you still haven't told me if you heard or saw anything last night." Still Glen hesitated. This time Blakemoor picked up on it. "Did "Did you hear something last night?" he pressed. you hear something last night?" he pressed.

Glen started to shake his head, then changed his mind. Why not just tell the detective exactly what had happened? "I'm not sure," he said. "I don't think so, but on the other hand, something weird happened when I went up to the park to look for Anne this morning." As clearly as he could, he told Blakemoor exactly why he'd gone to the park, and about the strange image of Joyce Cottrell that had come into his mind the moment he heard that a woman's body had been found in the bushes.

"Any reason why you might have thought of her?" Blakemoor asked with studied casualness.

There was no way to keep from telling the detective the rest of the story. "Well, she did did tell Anne she saw me out in the backyard yesterday," he said. "She claimed I was naked." tell Anne she saw me out in the backyard yesterday," he said. "She claimed I was naked."

Blakemoor gazed steadily at him. "Your backyard, or hers?"

"Mine," Glen a.s.sured him. "But I wasn't naked."

The detective shrugged dismissively. "So what if you were? It's your backyard, isn't it?"

"But I wasn't wasn't naked," Glen insisted, though even as he uttered the words he knew they might not be true. naked," Glen insisted, though even as he uttered the words he knew they might not be true.

The detective let just the tiniest hint of a smile-a congenial smile-play around the corners of his lips. "So I guess you must have been pretty p.i.s.sed at her, huh?" Glen opened his mouth to reply, then saw the direction the conversation was going. Abruptly he closed his mouth, and at the same time saw the faint smile disappear from Blakemoor's lips. "Weren't you p.i.s.sed at her?" the detective repeated. "I know if someone accused me of something like that, I'd sure be mad as h.e.l.l."

"Mad enough to kill her?" Glen asked. "Is that what you're suggesting?"

Blakemoor's expression hardened. "I'm not suggesting anything," he said. "I'm just asking questions."

"And I'm just answering them," Glen said. "And yes, I suppose I was was p.i.s.sed off at Joyce. But certainly not enough to have killed her." p.i.s.sed off at Joyce. But certainly not enough to have killed her."

"But you instantly thought of her this morning when you heard a body'd been found," Blakemoor reminded him. "Why?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Glen said angrily. "But now I'm wondering if maybe I shouldn't call my lawyer. If you're going to accuse me of killing Joyce Cottrell-"

Blakemoor held up his hands as if to fend off the torrent of angry words. "Hey, slow down! I'm not accusing you of anything. And if you want to call your lawyer, go right ahead. We can call this talk off right now, if that's what you want. All I'm doing is looking for information. I'm not accusing anybody of anything."

Glen's lips twisted into a wry parody of a smile. "'But anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law'?" he asked, parroting the phrase he'd heard used on television so often it had become a cliche.

Blakemoor seemed to back off even further. "We only do a Miranda when we're arresting someone," he said tersely. "But you still have a right to have a lawyer present."

Glen thought it over quickly, and sensed that things were about to get out of hand. If he insisted on calling a lawyer, wouldn't that make him look guilty? But he wasn't wasn't guilty. He'd neither heard nor seen anything, let alone guilty. He'd neither heard nor seen anything, let alone done done anything! But what about the blackouts? What about yesterday, when he'd obviously gone out and dumped the shaver into the trash, although he had no memory of it? If he'd done that- anything! But what about the blackouts? What about yesterday, when he'd obviously gone out and dumped the shaver into the trash, although he had no memory of it? If he'd done that- He cut the thought off, seeing where it was going and not wanting to follow it.

Finally he made up his mind: he'd done nothing, and he didn't need a lawyer.

"All I was thinking was that there must have been some reason why I thought of Joyce this morning, and the only thing I can come up with is that maybe I did did hear something last night, but just don't remember it. I mean, if I was sound asleep and I heard something, maybe in my subconscious I remembered it and put it together when I heard about the body. I mean, if I heard a noise when I was half asleep..." Once again Glen's words trailed off, and once again he wished he'd said nothing. hear something last night, but just don't remember it. I mean, if I was sound asleep and I heard something, maybe in my subconscious I remembered it and put it together when I heard about the body. I mean, if I heard a noise when I was half asleep..." Once again Glen's words trailed off, and once again he wished he'd said nothing.

The two men's eyes met, and though neither of them said anything, the unspoken question hung between them: What if it wasn't just a noise that Glen didn't remember hearing? What if it was a scream?

What if it was a killing! killing!

When Mark Blakemoor left the house a few minutes later, those questions had still not been asked.

But both men were wondering what the answers might be.

CHAPTER 37.