Killer Within Read online

  “You mean like the Boston Strangler.”

  “A good nickname helps too.”

  “Or something juicy like a call girl with a hidden camera?”

  The agent took a sip of water and gathered his papers together. “Yeah, well, I think it’s best for everyone involved if that little detail never got out. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Arnie wanted to smile at the agent’s weak attempt to appear menacing, but instead he nodded seriously. “Of course. I just can’t believe there are so many serial killers walking around.”

  “The world is a violent place. But you already knew that.”

  Agent Dewitt looked up as he said the words. An alarm went off inside Arnie’s mind. For one second, he thought he caught something new in the agent’s eyes. An intensity and intelligence that hadn’t been there before. In a flash, Arnie considered whether Dewitt had been playing him for a fool all along. The “gee-whiz, I’m-just-a-junior-agent-on-shit-duty” routine all a masterful ploy to get Arnie to lower his guard for this one question.

  “What are you referring to?” Arnie asked. He felt his heart pound, and he cursed himself for the weakness. He slid one hand off the table and pinched his own leg painfully, trying to calm himself. Agent Dewitt glanced down and appeared to note the movement. Arnie stopped immediately.

  “I read about the kid at the convenience store,” Agent Dewitt said. “That double homicide up in Baltimore. Nasty stuff.”

  Arnie tried to look rattled. It didn’t take much effort. “I—I don’t really . . .” He took a drink. “I don’t like to think about that night.”

  Agent Dewitt watched him for what Arnie thought was a beat too long. Then the agent’s vacant look returned. “I understand. Sorry I brought it up. There are some real sick puppies out there.” It was his turn to look down at his hands. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen since I joined the Bureau.”

  Arnie could hear the pain in the young man’s voice. He’d already decided not to underestimate Agent Dewitt, but he wished he could question him.

  “Did you see Suzanne Greenville, Agent Dewitt?”

  Did you see her severed hands and feet? The way the wound across her throat hung open?

  Did you notice that her mouth was stuffed with her own feces to make your profilers think it was about revenge?

  Right now, are you looking for someone who was abused by their mother, an orphan maybe? Did the murderer cut her feet off so she couldn’t run away the way Mommy did? Her hands so she couldn’t hit anymore? Is that what your profilers are telling you, Agent Dewitt?

  “Yes, I’m sure you have seen some terrible things,” Arnie said, trying to sound consoling. “I couldn’t do your job. I’d have nightmares for sure.”

  The agent looked away and Arnie allowed himself a quick smile. Yes, the young agent had nightmares. Severed limbs. Blood pouring from open wounds. Flies crawling across the dead girl’s eyes, sucking away the oozing moisture. Nightmares for sure. Somehow that made Arnie feel better.

  “Anyway,” the agent said, “here’s my card if you think of anything that might help. Anything she might have said, you know, anything at all.”

  “You’ll be the first person I call,” Arnie said. “Should I . . . I mean, I understand that what I was doing was technically illegal.”

  The agent waved him off. “This is purely a murder investigation. I don’t believe there is any interest in pursuing the . . . clients in this case. For now anyway.”

  “Then I don’t suppose you’d like to leave that photograph with me? It’s all a little embarrassing.”

  “Sorry. Goes back in the evidence locker. But don’t worry, they’re all under seal.”

  “I understand. Just thought I’d ask.”

  The agent nodded good-bye and left Arnie to pick at his Caesar salad. Unfortunately, as Arnie replayed the conversation in his head, he found that his appetite had disappeared. He called for the check and decided to visit his banker to start making arrangements.

  Now, ten hours later, Arnie was sitting in his car, stewing over the memory of the meeting. He was thinking through all the possible ways to dispose of Agent Dewitt and his smug, grinning face, when . . .

  CHAPTER 8

  . . . the side door leading to the breezeway out of the garage opened, and Arnie jerked upright in his seat. Fear clenched at his stomach. He couldn’t see who had opened the door, but it didn’t matter. His raw instinct told him it was Agent Dewitt at the door. The FBI knew all about him. It was a trap. Right there in his own home.

  Arnie reached under his seat, his fingers scratching the metal guides and bits of leather as he groped for the Beretta M9 taped there. His heart thumped in his chest, adrenaline pumping through his system. The clank-clank of the locomotive in his brain bleated out for him to hurry. His hand wrapped around the butt of the gun and he tugged at it.

  In spite of the fear of being caught, he trembled at the glorious thought of shooting Agent Dewitt through the head, of seeing that little puff of red cloud appear out the back of the man’s head as the hollow-point round liquefied the agent’s brain, and then blew a six-inch hole through the skull.

  He had the gun loose from the tape just as the overhead lights turned on.

  “STOP. FEDERAL AGENTS. FREEZE.”

  Arnie could have sworn he heard these words. That they were not just a figment of his hopped-up brain.

  He raised his gun and took aim at Agent Dewitt’s head.

  Agent Dewitt’s eyes widened in astonishment. Then he let out a short, high-pitched yelp and raised his hands over his head like he was in an old western TV show.

  The Beretta’s trigger was set at thirteen pounds of pressure. Arnie would later wonder how close he had come. Ten pounds? Maybe even twelve? No more than a twitch away from pulling the trigger and blowing away the head of his little boy, not Agent Dewitt at all, but Jason. Poor, thirteen-year-old Jason, standing there, paralyzed more with shock than fear.

  Arnie pointed the gun at the ceiling and released the trigger slowly and put the safety on. He choked back a sob, the realization of nearly destroying the only thing he loved in the world crashing in on him with such intensity that it was almost painful.

  “Hey, Jason. It’s OK. Nothing to worry about. See, I’m putting the gun away.”

  Jason lowered his hands but didn’t say anything, as if he were still unsure if his dad meant to shoot him or talk to him.

  Arnie fought to control the tremble in his voice. He quickly decided blame and anger were the best substitutes for the guilt he felt. “What are you doing up, sport? Where’s Anita?” Arnie said, upset that Jason’s nanny had him up past midnight.

  Jason stood up on his tiptoes to follow his dad’s hands as they disappeared under the car seat to redeposit the gun. “We were watchin’ a movie. She fell asleep like always, so I stayed up.” Then, with more enthusiasm, he asked the real question of the hour. “Was that a real gun? Can I see it?”

  Arnie got out of the car and walked over to his son and kneeled in front of him. He loved the frankness of youth. No bullshit about this boy, no sir. “No, you can’t see it. And I never want you poking around looking for it either.”

  “Why do you have a gun?”

  “Some people have bodyguards who watch out for people who want to hurt them or kidnap them. Some people have guard dogs watch over their homes for them. Understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, we don’t have bodyguards, right? And we don’t have guard dogs. So why do I have the gun?”

  Jason mulled it over, then finally said with a smile, “Because you’re our guard dog?”

  Arnie grinned, pleased as always with his son. “That’s right, Jason. I’m the guard dog. And I’m one mean SOB. I’ll never let anyone harm you. Understand?” Jason nodded. “All right, give me a hug.”

  Jason gave him a half
hug with one arm. Arnie found himself missing the overboard showing of affection from when Jason was younger. He cringed at the thought that one day he might ask for a hug and get offered a handshake instead. Until that day, he was happy to get at least the half hug.

  “I almost peed my pants,” Jason said, stepping back. “You really scared the shit out of me.”

  “Language,” Arnie growled. Jason looked properly chastised, but Arnie knew he was enjoying testing his limits. “But I bet you’ll remember this night. If you’d fallen asleep watching TV, it’d be like tonight never happened. If you’re not going to do something you’re going to remember, what’s the point of living that day?”

  “I’d rather remember a night for some other reason than being scared,” Jason said. “You’re the one always saying fear is weakness.”

  “You’re right. There are better ways to make sure you remember nights like this. Ways that make you feel so alive you can’t believe it. Ways that make it so you don’t have to be scared.”

  “How?”

  Arnie laughed. “I’ll teach you some day. You’re a little young still.”

  “But I’m fourteen now. That’s old enough.”

  “You’re almost fourteen. And that’s not even old enough to be up past midnight on a school night.”

  “It’s Friday.”

  “All right, then it’s past my bedtime. Let’s hit the sack. We’re up early tomorrow.”

  Before Jason could lodge his protest, Arnie spun him around and walked him out the garage side door and through the breezeway to the main house. He was still a little shaken from how close he had come to destroying the only thing in the world he loved.

  He was too on edge, and it was getting dangerous. At least he felt more confident after meeting with his banker that the proper arrangements were in place in case the impossible happened. If the FBI ever put the pieces together, they would have a tough time finding him. With little or no notice, Arnie felt confident that he and Jason could disappear forever without a trace. And for the first time, Arnie wondered if that scenario wasn’t more of a likelihood than a distant contingency.

  “Are we still taking the boat out tomorrow?” Jason asked, snapping Arnie out of the cyclical thoughts of his paranoia.

  Arnie suppressed a groan. He had conveniently blocked out tomorrow. “You bet. Bright and early, we’re Annapolis bound. Weather permitting,” he added.

  “I just checked online. We’re fine.”

  “Good, now get upstairs and get changed. I’m going to wake up Anita, then I’ll be up to tuck you in.”

  “Are you going to use the gun? Make sure she remembers this night?” Jason said eagerly.

  “Upstairs, mister. Don’t be causing problems.”

  Arnie watched his boy bound up the stairs, wishing for all the world that tomorrow was already behind him. As he walked through the foyer on his way to the media room where he imagined he would find old, snoring Anita sprawled out on the couch, he was surprised to find himself latching on to the one detail of the day that seemed minor compared to everything else that had happened.

  Maybe it was because it made the trip the next day more bearable. Maybe it was walking through a quiet house that seemed to beg for a woman’s presence. Whatever it was, he found himself hoping he would run into the woman at the bar tomorrow. Allison. That was her name.

  Perhaps they would have a love affair. But more likely, the interesting and beautiful freelance photographer would end up being the next adrenaline rush he needed. He’d discovered that the more beautiful the woman, the greater the rush of the conquest. Anyone with money could get a woman into bed. That wasn’t a conquest; that was a hobby. But to stamp out the life from another human being, that was another matter altogether.

  Tomorrow might not be that bad, Arnie thought. It might not be that bad at all.

  CHAPTER 9

  Allison woke at six in the morning, and no matter how much she willed her body to keep sleeping, it wouldn’t comply. Finally, she pushed off the covers and draped her feet over the side of the bed and rolled herself over, groaning with each small move of muscles that had tightened overnight. Her neck especially felt like a thick collar of bruised flesh, and she sat on the edge of the mattress, stretching carefully from side to side until she loosened up.

  Allison had gotten used to a routine since arriving in town a few days earlier. Up early and out the door while the other guests at the Calvert House were still nestled in their down comforters and high-thread-count sheets. Down the street to City Dock Café, a coffeehouse where the baristas remembered your drink and the scones were baked fresh every day. A jumbo skim mocha for the road and she was off with her gear to shoot a few hundred photos in the morning light. Then back to town to drop off her stuff and go for her daily run. Five miles on off days. Ten when she was on. “On” and “off” were based on her stress level that day or the beauty of the place where she was running. Annapolis had given her many “on” days for both reasons.

  She could treadmill run or pound a track if she needed to, but a place like Annapolis made things easy. Running through the colonial streets under a canopy of leafy trees, across the bridges over the Severn River, through the academic serenity of St. John’s College’s manicured campus, she felt like she could run forever, soaking up the endorphins rushing through her bloodstream. Each day she picked a new route, often just making blind turns to see where her legs would carry her. There was only one rule. While civilians were given free access to the Naval Academy campus, she had no desire to go there.

  The stress from the last week pushed her as well. Running had always been her outlet, and she needed that outlet not only to get through the emotions of being back in this place, but to help her focus on her goals. She had never done anything like this before, and she knew she needed to keep her edge in order to pull it off.

  She decided to change her routine today, though. She put on a sports bra, sweats, and a T-shirt and headed downstairs with a baseball cap on, pulling her hair through the hole in the back. There were already a few guests down in the common area, reading newspapers and drinking coffee. One man, the one she knew would be there waiting, the one dressed as always in beige Dockers and a tucked-in polo shirt, glanced up at her as if he might say something. She turned away from him and heard the paper rustle as he flipped the newspaper over on his lap. Allison grabbed a banana from the morning table and chugged down a full glass of orange juice before heading out the front door.

  Normally she only did a few cursory stretches before starting her run, but this morning she timed herself and stretched out for a full ten minutes while she consumed her banana. She knew she shouldn’t even run at all, but she needed it. The accident had left her more rattled than she would admit to anyone. That and the first real contact with Arnie Milhouse had combined to make this a true on day if there ever had been one. She thought she might even push it a little and hit twelve miles today.

  Stretches over, she bounded down the flight of wooden stairs that led to State Circle and headed right, circling around the capitol grounds. It was still early so the gaggles of tourists and schoolkids were sitting en route to the nation’s little known, six-month capitol. A few gardeners roamed the shrubs that outlined the crisscrossing walkways meandering through the grounds. Her main spectators were the dozens of squirrels that chittered eagerly at her, fat little rodents that thrived off an unhealthy diet of potato chips and Cheetos and whatever else tourists used to coax the animals into the rangefinder of their cameras.

  She followed the spin-off from State Circle, passed by the governor’s mansion—See sweetie, that’s where you can shake the hand of the governor and get a free cup of cider at Christmas. How about that?—did the small loop around Church Circle and headed down Main Street to City Dock.

  Here too it was early enough so that she avoided the usual throngs of people that crowded the streets. Like the loc
als at most tourist attractions she’d visited in her life, Annapolitans had a healthy respect for the dollars tourists brought in but an even healthier desire not to be around them very often. Early morning still belonged to the locals, though: the shopkeepers, the guys cleaning the streets, the local cops grabbing some coffee at City Dock Café. Allison had always been a morning person for this reason. There was a vibe in the morning that disappeared later in the day, something that changed after the day settled into a rhythm and the early promise that this particular day might be different gave way to the plodding certainty that today would actually turn out to be the same as all the others. But the morning always held so much promise, and Allison liked being part of the people who shared the same hope, no matter how briefly.

  She’d settled into a rhythm by the time she got to the end of Main Street and ran down parallel to Ego Alley, the short canal that led from the Bay into City Dock. Ego Alley was called that for the type of person who paid extra money to tie up his or her boat along the canal wall, and really was an impressive display of yachts, both sail and power. Tagged with the moniker “The Sailing Capital of the United States,” Annapolis didn’t disappoint in its display of vessels.

  As she made the turn to head back to City Dock and headed left over the bridge to Eastport, Allison glanced up at the smooth curves of the Naval Academy Visitor’s Center. Her dad had loved the museum there. In pictures and artifacts, it described the role of academy graduates in the nation’s wars, in the space program, in the embodiment of honor and service to a greater cause. It looked all well and good to her seventeen-year-old eyes, but it was nothing compared to what she saw watching her dad. The way he stood in awe of the place, squeezing her hand tightly when his own excitement welled up in him, the way he almost choked up when reading the quotations aloud to her from the walls of one of the displays, the quotes about honor and dedication to sacrifice. The words had stirred her, but the tears that welled in his eyes did her in. He never asked her to go or even pressured her to apply, but there wasn’t a recruiting pamphlet in the world that could have done to her what seeing her father like that had done. She knew right then that she had to do whatever it took to get accepted and become an officer in the US Navy.