You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (35 page)

“Spencer Murray is also known as Spencer Rowe,”
the anchorman said.
“At age eleven, he was convicted and served five years for the murders of his parents in Virginia . . .”

“Well, just one look at him and you can tell he's a creep,” Bonnie's father muttered.

“Honey,” her mother whispered. She shook her head at him and then gave a nod in Bonnie's direction.

“Rowe was released from a state facility in Arlington in May of this year,”
the anchorman continued.
“He was allowed to move to Seattle with his aunt and guardian, provided he continued to see a mental health specialist. His therapist, fifty-eight-year-old Diane Leppert, was murdered earlier in the week. Her body was discovered in her office this morning. Stay tuned later in this hour for
The Sally Justice Show
. Sally, you'll be talking about this complex case with some expert criminologists. . .”

The TV picture went to split screen—with the dapper anchorman in one half, and a fifty-something woman with bad Botox and straight, bleached-blond hair in the other. She wore a pink blazer and held a pen in her hand, which she waved emphatically as she spoke.
“What I'd like to know, Rob, is what's wrong with our criminal justice penal system?”
Sally ranted.
“Here's a little monster who shot both his parents in cold blood back in 2009. So they let him out of jail and allowed him to travel to another part of the country! And what does he do when he gets to Seattle? He changes his name, so no one knows him. Even sex offenders have to register! And what does this ‘reformed, rehabilitated' killer do less than five months after his release? He starts killing again and again . . .”

Bonnie felt her throat close up. Tears came to her eyes.

Despite what his aunt had just said in her televised plea, it seemed Spencer had already been convicted by the police and the press for all these murders. She was almost glad there wasn't a TV onboard the boat. If Spencer saw this, it would kill him.

Bonnie quietly turned and withdrew toward the back stairs.

But Sally Justice's voice on TV followed her up the steps, taunting her:
“He's responsible for five recent deaths—that we know of. I hope after they catch him, he's tried as an adult. I don't care if he is seventeen . . .”

Even after Bonnie closed her bedroom door, she couldn't quite shut out what was being said about Spencer.

She flopped down on her bed and told herself that it just wasn't true. None of what they were saying about Spencer was true.

* * *

Tanya stood at the top of the old Galer Crown Stairs. With 785 concrete steps, the wide stairway had three landings and a pipe railing down the middle of it. Surrounding trees and bushes formed a near-complete arch over the stairs, which seemed to go on indefinitely. But at the moment, it was too dark to see much beyond the first fifty or so steps.

She was early for their 7:30 appointment. She'd put on some lipstick and mascara for him. Except for a few joggers and a handful of others, no one else was using the stairs at this hour. While Tanya waited, she kept thinking about what a creepy, lonely spot this was.

She had her phone to keep her company. Online, she'd watched Andrea Boyle's public plea for her nephew to turn himself in. She wondered what “new evidence” had come up to “confirm” what Spencer and his aunt had already told the police. Did it have anything to do with her—or Damon?

She thought of what her ex-friend Bonnie had said:
You and Damon are trying to pin the blame on Spencer, who never did one mean thing to either one of you. Spencer has been nice to you . . . He's a decent guy . . . You're hurting him . . . You're turning into a bully, Tanya—the very thing you hate . . .

She'd tried to call Spencer, but got some automated recording:
“The cellular customer you're trying to reach is unavailable right now . . .”

She checked the Internet for any news updates. On CNN Live, some reporter talked about Ron Jarvis, making out like he was some kind of boy-next-door, honor student, star athlete—instead of the dumb jock a-hole he was. After the segment on “Saint Ron,” they finally cut back to the anchorman, who announced,
“We have word of a new development in this case. Seattle Police have now confirmed that a second body was discovered in the woods where high school varsity quarterback Ron Jarvis was murdered. They haven't yet released the identity of this second victim. The police are still looking for another Queen Anne High School student, Spencer Murray, for questioning in connection to these murders . . .”

The same photo of Spencer that CNN had used earlier came up in a box behind the announcer's shoulder.

“CNN will give you continued coverage of this situation in Seattle. Stay tuned now for
The Sally Justice Show
. . .”

Tanya didn't understand what they were talking about. Who besides Ron was killed in those woods by Discovery Park? Why wasn't she told about it? In his text earlier, he'd said she shouldn't believe what she heard on the news about him. She wondered if this had anything to do with that.

She glanced at her Betty Boop wristwatch and realized he was already twenty-five minutes late. Tanya phoned him and got the generic recording. She left a message: “Well, it's practically eight. I've been waiting here at the top of the steps for over a half hour now. By the way, your handiwork is all over CNN. Congratulations, you've gone national. They're talking about a second body in the woods. Was this the thing I was supposed to ignore? I really wish I knew what was going on with you. Anyway, I give up. It's obvious you're not coming. I'm out of here.”

Tanya clicked off and started for home. She was just slipping her phone into her coat pocket when it chimed. Someone was sending her a text. She stopped to read it:

Tanya texted back a terse
OK
. Clicking off again, she shoved the phone back into her pocket and continued toward home.

She wanted to ask him about that other body in the woods. Was it another innocent bystander—collateral damage like Mr. and Mrs. Logan? She'd known he was going after Reed, but it had thrown her for a loop that the parents were killed, too. When she'd asked him about it on the phone, he snapped back: “Well, you knew I was going to cram him inside the refrigerator and attach a lock to it. Did you expect his parents to sleep through all that?”

But she didn't understand why Spencer's therapist had to die. And now there was this person killed along with Ron.

He hadn't spoken to her since last night, before he'd killed Ron. Today, he'd just sent texts in response to her voice mail messages. Why was that? What had happened to him?

All day long, she'd had this strange feeling. She wanted to hear his voice. She wanted to see him in person again—finally. She wanted to be face-to-face with him when he told her about that second corpse in the woods.

Kicking leaves out of her way, Tanya ambled down the sidewalk. She missed their lunches together, and watching bad TV at her house when her mother wasn't monopolizing the set. She even missed suffering with him at the hands of those bullies. It had been a lot more fun thinking of ways to kill them when it was just a fantasy.

She hadn't actually seen him since he was supposed to have died three weeks ago. He kept talking about how they were going to get together when all of this was over. But that seemed like an empty promise.

He'd probably keep her waiting at the back door half the night before she got another text saying he'd meet her later.

Tanya had an awful feeling she'd never see her friend Damon again.

* * *

There were cops all over. He'd parked his Jetta across the street and half a block down from the town house. It was a mob scene in front of the place.

The police were still looking for him. They'd called twice, leaving a message once and hanging up a second time. Adrian had called and left a message, too.

A few minutes ago, he'd wandered amid the forty or so onlookers and reporters. Even with all the cops around, it had been easy for him to get lost in the crowd. He'd overheard one of the reporters say that Andrea Boyle was supposed to come out and talk to reporters sometime soon.

Troy had expected to catch her coming back from the hospital by herself. He hadn't anticipated this three-ring circus in front of the town house. And yet the Kompakt .233 assault rifle he'd chosen among his friend's friend's secret arsenal was perfect if he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. He even had a slightly oversized trench coat under which he could conceal it—right up until the last minute.

Back in the car now, he made sure no cops were around. He took one last hit of cocaine, using it all up. It strengthened his resolve.

He was ready for this.

The truth was he'd always wanted to be famous. And he'd never really made it as an actor.

But after this, everyone would know who he was.

The actor in him never stopped studying human behavior—even now, while high. He could mentally go outside his own skin and look at himself. Troy knew, thanks to the coke, he was now in that manic, jittery, euphoric stage in which he truly believed he could do anything.

And he could.

He reached under the driver's seat and grabbed the Kompakt .223. His hands were shaking, and he took a few deep breaths—like an athlete about to run the high hurdles. He wasn't scared or nervous.

Troy climbed out of his Jetta. He'd parked close to a row of shrubs on the driver's side, so he had some camouflage as he put on the baggy trench coat and then hid the assault weapon inside it. Shutting the car door, he started toward the crowd in front of Luke Shuler's town house.

He'd never felt more powerful in his life.

The damp, chilly air kissed his face. He watched the police escort Andrea Boyle out the front door. More than a dozen reporters raising their handheld microphones formed a human podium for her. She put on such a pious, long-suffering look as she approached the cluster of mics.

He merged with the rest of the onlookers. None of them seemed to notice him. They wouldn't see him until it was too late. They had their cell phones out to record this moment for Facebook and Twitter. They had their children in cute Halloween outfits. They had their dogs on leashes. He wondered how many would be struck down by the storm of bullets within the next minute.

As he weaved through them, Troy couldn't stop smiling. He barely heard any of their mindless chatter. He was looking at Andrea Boyle in front of all those microphones. Clutching the Kompakt .223 under the floppy coat, Troy started to move faster toward his target. He bumped into onlookers and reporters, and impatiently pushed others aside. Their startled cries and admonishments fell upon deaf ears. No one was getting between him and that bitch.

He was just a few feet away from her now.

Luke Shuler's whore looked up from the microphones and seemed to lock eyes with him. Clearly, she recognized him.

Troy broke into a grin and whipped out the gun.

He saw her open her mouth to scream.

He squeezed the trigger and fired off the first round. Shots echoed out.

People started shrieking. Children cried out in terror. Everyone ran in different directions. Dogs yelped and barked furiously. Along with the kids, the animals had it the worst—as the mob trampled and tripped over them to get out of the line of fire.

By the town house's front stoop, the wall of microphones toppled. All at once, the cops swarmed around Andrea Boyle. They fell into a human pile on the front stoop.

Troy couldn't see her amid all the bodies. He couldn't tell if he'd killed her or even drawn blood. He was about to fire off another round at them to make sure she was dead. But suddenly he heard gunfire—and it wasn't from the assault weapon he brandished.

Troy felt the bullets ripping into him, electric jolts of pain in his chest and at the base of his throat.

He'd wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.

But as he fell to the hard pavement, the last thing Troy heard—past all the screaming and crying—was a man's voice, louder than anyone else's. “They got him!” he yelled. “They killed the scumbag . . .”

* * *

As she turned down her street, Tanya half expected to see a line of police cars in front of her house. It was just a matter of time before they caught up with Spencer. Once they did, he'd tell them his theories about her and Damon. He had his aunt on his side—and Bonnie, too. The police would have to listen. They'd have to follow it up.

Tanya was still a block away. But so far, she didn't see any patrol cars.

She wished she could just disappear—like Damon had.

When they were picked on at school, she and Damon sometimes talked about how sorry people would be if they committed a double suicide. “They'll miss us when we're gone,” Damon used to say. Tanya was never completely sold on the suicide fantasy. She always had more fun daydreaming about the different ways they'd kill certain bullies and mean girls.

Around the second week of school, when Damon pulled away, Tanya had no idea what she'd done to upset him. But he was acting differently toward her. That was when she started to suspect he'd made a secret new friend.

She was pretty sure it wasn't Troy Slattery. Tanya had met him a few times and found him rather fascinating and edgy. But Damon never liked him all that much. She couldn't see them pairing up as “partners in crime.” Besides, his mother had stopped dating Troy by the end of the summer. By September, she was seeing a much younger man, and apparently, it wasn't very serious. Tanya never met the guy.