Read I Don't Want To Kill You Online
Authors: Dan Wells
I Don't Want To Kill You (27 page)
‘But I didn’t write the letter—’
‘It doesn’t matter who wrote it!’ I shouted, a little too loudly; I was trying to sound desperate, and I hoped it was working. ‘It doesn’t matter who wrote it,’ I repeated more quietly. ‘What matters is that your name is on it, and that’s all the killer is going to see. You’re the next target, whether you like it or not.’
Silence.
‘What if he doesn’t read the paper?’
‘He’s written two letters to the editor; he reads the paper.’
More silence. ‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘You’re right. But if the paper can print a retraction—’
‘Then you’ll look like a guilty coward, trying to go back on what you said.’
‘Then I need to call the police.’
‘So another one of them can die?’ I asked. ‘I tried to warn the police two weeks ago, after you and I figured out the religious connection, and they tried to protect William Astrup; the killer found out about it and killed the Sheriff in retribution. For all we know, the killer
is
one of the police. Do you really want someone to die trying to protect you?’
is
one of the police. Do you really want someone to die trying to protect you?’
‘What else am I supposed to do? I can’t just sit around and wait for him to kill me.’
This is it.
‘You can leave,’ I said. ‘You can pack some things and get out of town – visit some family in the city, or go on a vacation you’ve been meaning to take – anything. If you’re gone he can’t kill you, and if there’s no police protecting you then he can’t kill them either.’
‘You can leave,’ I said. ‘You can pack some things and get out of town – visit some family in the city, or go on a vacation you’ve been meaning to take – anything. If you’re gone he can’t kill you, and if there’s no police protecting you then he can’t kill them either.’
‘What about my neighbours?’
‘As long as you don’t tell them anything, they’re innocent,’ I said, ‘and the Handyman goes out of his way to keep innocents safe. Look at the Homecoming Dance – the bomb was fake and his gun wasn’t even loaded.’
‘He protects them until he gets into a rage,’ the pastor said. ‘Then they just become targets of opportunity. He attacked the Mayor’s assistant, and he was just a bystander.’
‘But he didn’t kill him,’ I said, ‘and he only attacked him because it was part of his plan. He’s too meticulous for targets of opportunity. If he can’t kill you, on the terrain he’s scoped out and prepared for, he won’t kill anybody at all.’
‘You really think so?’
No.
‘Of course,’ I lied. ‘This is a very careful, very organised man.’
‘Of course,’ I lied. ‘This is a very careful, very organised man.’
‘Then he’ll follow me,’ the pastor said, ‘and catch me while I’m leaving town.’
‘Not if you leave now. It’s only eight o’clock – he may not have even read the paper yet. Get out while you can, and come back in a week when it’s safe.’
Pause. ‘I won’t be safe until he’s caught,’ said the pastor. ‘I’m going to leave, but tonight I’m going to call the police and ask them to patrol the neighbourhood. If he’s there, looking for me, they might pick him up, and if I don’t tell them until late they won’t have time to tip their hand with a stakeout.’
No! I was going to use your house as the trap.
But his suggestion made sense, and I couldn’t think of any way to talk him out of it without sounding suspicious. ‘That’s a good idea.’
Maybe I can use the mortuary – it’s on the edge of town, in a neighbourhood with no streetlights. I’ll have to get rid of Mom.
But his suggestion made sense, and I couldn’t think of any way to talk him out of it without sounding suspicious. ‘That’s a good idea.’
Maybe I can use the mortuary – it’s on the edge of town, in a neighbourhood with no streetlights. I’ll have to get rid of Mom.
‘And you, John,’ he said. ‘I want you to promise me you won’t get involved.’
‘Of course.’
‘Of course you’ll promise me, or of course you’ll get involved?’
Tricky guy, this pastor.
‘I promise I won’t get involved,’ I lied. If I had a nickel for every time I broke a solemn promise . . .
‘I promise I won’t get involved,’ I lied. If I had a nickel for every time I broke a solemn promise . . .
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell the police to watch for you, too, just in case.’
‘You don’t trust me?’
‘I’m leaving town on your recommendation,’ he said. ‘I think that speaks for itself. I’m grateful that you called to warn me, but I want to make sure you’re safe.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, tapping my notebook with the early drafts of the letter. ‘I promise I’ll stay away.’
We hung up, and I scouted around the mortuary a bit, looking for good places to hold someone. All of the obvious choices were
too
obvious – I couldn’t just tell him to get into the closet and expect him to comply. It had to be somewhere he would naturally go anyway, and that meant the entry – but our main doors had glass, and it would be far too easy to escape.
too
obvious – I couldn’t just tell him to get into the closet and expect him to comply. It had to be somewhere he would naturally go anyway, and that meant the entry – but our main doors had glass, and it would be far too easy to escape.
Our side door, on the other hand, was perfect. There was a solid wooden door that led into a small stairway; from there you could go through another solid wooden door into the mortuary, or up to a third wooden door that led into our apartment. I’d need to barricade those doors even further, to stop a desperate demon armed with a hatchet, but I could do it, and it could work.
Time for Phase Two.
Chapter 19
Half an hour later I said goodbye to my mom and left the house, but instead of driving to school I parked a half a block from Father Erikson’s house and waited, watching. True to his word, he emerged a while later with a suitcase, got in his car, and drove away. I waited a few minutes, just to be sure, then pulled into his driveway and slipped into the backyard. Normally I’d try to sneak in more subtly, but his call to the police tonight would take care of that – anything I did to the house would be blamed on the Handyman. I put my foot through a basement window, reached in carefully to unlatch it, and climbed inside.
The priest’s house was surprisingly mundane – no basement full of weird religious paraphernalia, just stacks of old furniture and boxes full of airplane magazines. I went upstairs and found the priest’s home to be just as neat and well-kept as it had been the other night.
If the Handyman was going to attack the priest, he wouldn’t leave anything to chance: he needed to know his victim would be here when he came, and he needed assurance that he’d trust him enough to let him inside. In other words, he needed to call ahead and make an appointment. All I had to do was make sure that call came to me. Wearing gloves, I picked up the phone and hit the button for voicemail. The system asked for a password, and I typed in the standard default of 1234. It didn’t work.
Crap.
I needed the Handyman to talk to me directly so I could set everything up.
Do I dare stay here all day? I don’t want to be seen here, by him or by the police. What will he do if he calls and gets voicemail instead? No,
I decided,
he won’t dare leave a recording of his voice. There’s something about it – an accent, maybe, like I’d thought before – that scares him so much he didn’t say a word at the dance.
He’d look for another number, and call the church. Maybe I’d have more luck there.
Crap.
I needed the Handyman to talk to me directly so I could set everything up.
Do I dare stay here all day? I don’t want to be seen here, by him or by the police. What will he do if he calls and gets voicemail instead? No,
I decided,
he won’t dare leave a recording of his voice. There’s something about it – an accent, maybe, like I’d thought before – that scares him so much he didn’t say a word at the dance.
He’d look for another number, and call the church. Maybe I’d have more luck there.
Hanging on a row of nails in the kitchen were a series of keys – spare keys to the church building, I assumed. I took them all and drove to St Mary’s. The parking lot was empty, and I went around to the back and started trying keys. One of them worked, and I put it into a separate pocket so I could remember which one it was. The church was large and empty and quiet, lit with a vaguely yellow light from the wavy, tinted windows. I wandered around, peeking into classrooms and storage closets, until at last I found the pastor’s office and tried more of the keys. Another one worked, so I dropped it into the same pocket as the first and let myself in.
The office was sparse, with various pictures and statues of Jesus the only real decoration, though there was a calendar on the wall with more airplane photos. I thought about simply waiting in the chapel, but I didn’t know who else might have a key and show up during the day. I didn’t want any interruptions or bystanders. I picked up the office phone, hit the voicemail button, and tried the 1234 password again. It worked this time, and I almost laughed.
I guess he doesn’t expect anyone to break into a church.
I listened carefully to the voicemail options, found the one for call forwarding, and entered the number for Forman’s cellphone. I confirmed the forward and left the church.
I guess he doesn’t expect anyone to break into a church.
I listened carefully to the voicemail options, found the one for call forwarding, and entered the number for Forman’s cellphone. I confirmed the forward and left the church.
I was ready for the demon’s call, but I still didn’t know how the demon worked. I needed to be ready for anything. I got in my car and drove to Max’s house for Phase Three: steal a gun.
While I was driving, the phone rang.
I looked at the caller ID-it was nothing I recognised, and it wasn’t in the phone’s memory. Probably a local number. I answered carefully.
‘Hello?’
Silence. ‘I’m sorry,’ said an elderly female voice, ‘I thought this was the number for Saint Mary’s.’
Is this really an old lady, or is it a fake-out from the Handyman? Is it Nobody, calling on his behalf?
‘This is Saint Mary’s,’ I said quickly.
I have to keep him talking.
‘Can I help you?’
I have to keep him talking.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Well,’ she said slowly, ‘is Father Erikson there?’
‘May I ask who’s calling?’
‘It’s Fran from the sewing circle; he knows me.’
Do I trust her? Would the Handyman disguise himself as Fran from the sewing circle? How would he do it – how would he even know about her?
I shook my head.
This is probably a real call.
I shook my head.
This is probably a real call.
‘I’ll let him know you called,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’ I hung up and pulled onto Max’s street. His car was still in his driveway, and I stopped to think. I couldn’t very well break into his house with him still in it.
I looked at the clock on the dash: 10.30 a.m. There wasn’t any reason for him to be home this time of day unless he was sick, and that meant he wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. If I wanted to get in, I’d need to talk to him. I parked by the kerb, walked up to the door and knocked.
He opened it, saw me and frowned; he was wearing a long black coat, slightly too long in the sleeves so that it hid his hands. ‘What do you want?’
‘How you doing?’ I asked.
‘Where’s your girlfriend?’
‘School, I guess. I’m ditching today.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, then repeated, ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m just saying hi. Why aren’t you at school?’
‘Why aren’t you?’
‘No reason.’
He looked past me, out to my car at the street. ‘Is Marci with you?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
I glanced back at the street. ‘Is that good or bad?’
He half-shrugged, half-shook his head; his eyes were blank.
‘Can I come in?’
He sneered, or tried to, but he sighed halfway through and stepped back, opening the door wider. I stepped in, and he walked to the couch, leaving the door open. I closed it.
‘You okay?’ I asked.
‘Like you care.’
‘I just thought you’d be happier to see me. We haven’t hung out in a couple of months.’
‘Yippee,’ he said, falling onto the couch. ‘My best friend’s not ignoring me any more.’
‘I wasn’t ignoring you.’
‘Thank you, oh great and wonderful John, for descending from your place among the gods to speak to me. I apologise for failing to leap with joy upon seeing you.’
‘You don’t have to be that way about it.’
‘Excuse me, then.’
‘Look, I just thought I’d drop by and say hi. You don’t have to make a huge deal out of it.’
‘Where have you been for two months? What have you been doing?’
‘I’ve been hanging out with Marci—’
‘You’ve been hanging out with a huge group of hot girls, and it never occurred to you, even once, that I might like to hang out with some hot girls too. We’ve eaten lunch together every day for six fracking years, and then Marci shakes her boobs at you and I get dropped like a hot rock.’
‘So this is about Marci?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, sneering properly this time. ‘It’s about Marci.’ It was a face and voice he made a lot, though it was harsher now than usual, and I recognised it as sarcasm. That meant there was something else, but I had no idea what it might be.
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