Black Lightning Part 35

Why did he want them to be by themselves? But she already knew the answer to that-ever since she'd been a little girl, she'd been warned about not going anywhere with men who said they were going to take her somewhere where they'd be by themselves.

But this was her father!

Then she remembered Jolene Ruyksman, who had been in her cla.s.s until last year, when she'd tried to kill herself, and it turned out that her father had been getting in bed with her since she was only four, telling her that he'd kill her if she ever told anyone what they'd been doing.

But her own father wasn't like that-he'd never even looked at her funny, or done any of the things the counselors had warned her and her friends to watch out for when they'd talked about what had happened to Jolene.

Now she remembered something else, something her mother told her after her father had come home from the hospital. She had to get used to the idea that her father was going to be different, that he'd almost died, and that it would be a long time before he was completely recovered. But he couldn't have changed this much, could he?

As they pa.s.sed through Issaquah and started up toward Snoqualmie Pa.s.s, she glanced at him again. A bolt of lightning shot across the sky, and for an instant the interior of the motor home was as bright as day. The white light turned her father's face ashen, and when he turned to look at her, his eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that sent a chill through her.

"Can you feel it?" he asked. "Can you feel the electricity?"

Mutely, Heather shook her head.

"You will," he said. "And when you do-"

The rest of his words were cut off by a crash of thunder that struck the motor home with enough force to make it shake.

"D-Dad?" Heather asked as the thunder faded away. "Dad, what are you going to do to me?"

The man who no longer bore any resemblance to her father turned to look at her once again.

He said nothing.

All he did was smile.

And the smile made Heather shudder with pure terror.

CHAPTER 66.

Anne and Mark were alone in the car.

When they first left the house, she followed Mark blindly, but even as she and Kevin had gotten into his car-an unmarked sedan with a magnetized set of flashers that could be put onto the top in a couple of seconds-she started to wonder exactly what they could do. With no idea of where the motor home had gone, how were they going to follow it?

"I'd be willing to bet he heads back to the mountains," Mark told her. Picking up the microphone he issued some quick-and to Anne, barely intelligible-orders into the car's radio, alerting every police unit in the county to look for the motor home. Given the weather, though, he knew the odds of it being spotted were next to nil. "Now tell me what you think is going on," he asked Anne, unwilling to let her know just how bad the odds of locating Glen were.

Kevin's presence in the backseat had kept Anne silent, and instead of telling him what she thought had happened, she gave him directions to Alan and Arlene Cline's house. Glen's partner had agreed to keep Kevin for the rest of the evening, even overnight if it became necessary. The look in Anne's eyes as she led Kevin inside had been enough to tell both Alan and Arlene that whatever had happened was serious, and that she didn't have time to explain. It wasn't until she and Mark were back in the car that she finally told him her theory. Even then, she refused to elaborate before calling Gordy Farber, who had pulled Glen's medical records up on the computer he kept at home. Not only had he confirmed what Anne only suspected, but he told her about the blackouts Glen had been having, and the strange dreams. Dreams, Anne instantly understood, that had not been dreams at all. Rather, they were glimpses of what the other ent.i.ty within him was doing.

"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 A.M., Pacific Time."

Mark glanced at her. Pacific Time? What was that that all about? But before the question was fully formed in his mind, he knew the answer. Nine all about? But before the question was fully formed in his mind, he knew the answer. Nine A.M 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." "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. 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, G.o.d," 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 pa.s.senger seat, tried to catch a glimpse of the sign as they pa.s.sed 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.

"Fasten your seat belt, Heather. And put your hands on the dashboard."

His hard, cold voice-a voice she'd never heard from her father-made her instantly obey the order.

The motor home slowed further, and the man in the driver's seat-the man who looked like her father, but who she knew was not-spoke again.

"Don't think of trying to get out. I'm much stronger than you, and if you try to get to the door, I'll stop you. And I'll make you wish you hadn't tried to get away from me."

Heather's heart pounded. What did he mean? What would he do? As the motor home turned left, and Heather finally recognized the main street of Snoqualmie village, she searched for someone who might be able to help her. But the street was deserted, swept bare of traffic by the ferocity of the storm.

A sob, not just of terror, but of frustration, bubbled out of her throat. If there was no one to help her in the town, she would have no hope at all once they had pa.s.sed it by and left its lights behind.

As they reached the edge of the village, the man spoke. "You're afraid of me, aren't you, Heather?"

Heather, too numbed even to think, nodded mutely.

"You know I'm not your father, don't you?"

Again Heather could only nod.

"Do you know who I am?"

Now she shook her head, but something in his voice made her turn and look at him.

He was smiling, but it was a smile with no warmth in it.

He was staring at her, his cold eyes boring into her.

"My name is Richard Kraven," he said.

Heather felt a terrible numbness spread through her. What did he mean? Richard Kraven was dead! He'd been executed the day her father had his heart attack! Yet even as her mind tried to deny it, she somehow knew that the words the man had spoken were true. Though this man's flesh and bones were those of her father, his voice and his eyes told her he was not. "What do you want?" she breathed, her voice barely audible.

Richard Kraven's cold smile widened. "I want to touch you, Heather," he said. "I want to touch your heart."

CHAPTER 68.

"This is crazy," Anne Jeffers said. She had no idea where they were-they hadn't seen a sign for miles, and except for them, the narrow highway winding along the river was utterly deserted. Beyond the confines of Mark Blakemoor's car a dense blackness seemed to absorb the glow of the headlights, the slashing rain cutting visibility to no more than a few yards. Mark had been forced by the intensity of the storm to slow to little more than a crawl, and Anne's feeling that it was a mistake to have come up here was growing by the second. A flash of lightning burst above them, instantly followed by a crack of thunder so sharp it made Anne jump in her seat. "We've got to go back, Mark! This is insane! We don't even know where we are!"

"We're almost to the campground where they found Edna Kraven this morning," Mark replied. "Kevin said the place they were fishing wasn't very much farther up the road. We'll check those, then-"

The police radio crackled to life, and Mark s.n.a.t.c.hed up the microphone.

"Go ahead."

"Turns out your R.V. has a cell phone, and we got a trace on it," a barely audible voice, almost lost in the static caused by the storm, said.

Anne seemed about to speak, but Mark shook his head, leaning toward the radio's speaker as he strained to catch the crackling words. But only some garbled static came through the speaker.

"Say again!" Mark shouted into the microphone. "We've got a lot of static!"

The radio's speaker crackled again, and from somewhere in the cacophony of background noise a single word emerged.

Snoqualmie.

There was more, but again it was drowned out by static, and when the next transmission came through, nothing was audible at all. "Doesn't matter," Mark muttered. "They're up here." His eyes barely left the road as he quickly told Anne what had happened: "Cellular phones are almost like a homing device-they always stay in contact with the system. You can't pin them down exactly, but you can can get the general area they're operating out of." Without thinking, he reached out and took Anne's hand, squeezing it gently. "We'll find them. Just hang on. We'll find them." get the general area they're operating out of." Without thinking, he reached out and took Anne's hand, squeezing it gently. "We'll find them. Just hang on. We'll find them."

The car continued creeping up the grade, and finally they came to the campground, but when Mark saw that not only was the police tape still hanging across the road leading into it, but that the gate was closed and locked as well, he didn't even try to turn in. A mile and a half farther up the road, just as he was starting to wonder if Kevin had remembered where he'd been as well as he thought he had, the small sign for the turnoff to the right appeared out of the blackness. When he came to the entrance to the narrow lane a few moments later, he brought the car to a stop. The dirt track, already deeply rutted by a stream of water, was impa.s.sable by anything but a four-wheel drive. Mark might get the sedan down, but he would never get it up again, at least not tonight.

But how long had it been like this? What if the motor home was already down there?

He reached into the glove compartment, took out his gun, then got out of the car.

Anne, immediately understanding what he was about to do, scrambled out the pa.s.senger door.