The Last Girl

  “Everyone thinks you’re special.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re very smart.”

  “So are you, Sonya. I used to wish I could have been someone with a great talent; to sing like Mariah Carey or be as rich and powerful as Oprah. A movie star like Angelina Jolie. Instead, everything feels the same.”

  Sonya nodded. “I know what you mean.”

  Piper looked at her watch. “When you feel lonely and bored, you’re grateful for anyone who comes along and makes you see the world in bright colors. Someone who is bold and funny. I had a friend like that once.”

  “Who?”

  Piper shrugged. “She moved away. We better get back to class. I have another math quiz.”

  *****

  Bill pulled the hunting bow in its case out of his bedroom closet, laying it on the bed. He looked it over, trying to remember how much he paid for the bow and when he purchased it. He shook his head. “Let Aron do that...”

  He returned to the closet, retrieving the existing hunting knives in their cases. He had been more of a collector than a user of all the knives he bought. Some felt like a new discovery as Bill held the handles, admiring the blades and the workmanship. He wondered what it must have been like to make these knives for a living, to be part of some proud craft.

  The clipped, sharp point of one of the knives reminded him of Mike Winstead, for some reason. He was with Mike and a few other buddies the last time he went hunting, when he became lost. Bill was sure he had taken the same knife with him that day. The wooded spot was a new place, ten miles east of North Marine. The young man who found him seemed patient and polite, around twenty years old, clean-cut, except for the army-green paint on his face, which Bill found amusing, although some of the more serious hunters used face-paint as camouflage.

  Bill knew he would never hunt anymore, already putting away the mounted deer antlers and fish he had placed on the walls in his living room for years, even Sue let him hang up a few things in her house when they were married.

  Bill could recall Sue’s brief visit, which made him think of Tara and Kaitlyn, who had been like a granddaughter to him, the divorce breaking that bond.

  Bill, as the Alzheimer’s progressed, would want desperately to remember many things; sometimes he would perform a task several times in order to recall it later, whether completing a puzzle or checking the mail.

  Sue had left her cell phone number, written on a yellow Post-It note. Bill had stuck the note to the wall by his phone.

  Bill left his room. He checked each of the sticky notes on the wall and endtable. None of the numbers were Sue’s; she had written her name on the note. He pulled all of the sticky notes together in his hand, going through each phone number and message carefully.

  Helga, sensing his distress, rose from her bed and approached him, tail wagging.

  Bill placed the sticky notes in front of him, on a stool. Sue’s number could have been misplaced.

  Why do I care? he thought. I’m better off not talking to her, anyway. Tara would be over here, borrowing money, dumping her problems on me.

  He reached over, patting Helga on the head. Her life with him had lasted almost as long as any of his marriages. He could not recall the last time he spoke to John, who now had his own family.

  I never apologized to him, Bill thought.

  Bill had learned that Sue should never be underestimated. The woman had been too smart not to connect her separation from Bill coinciding with Carolyn‘s miraculous pregnancy for Sonya.

  I don’t think she would be waiting all of these years to stick it to me, he thought. Sue would never hurt Sonya, and I know she misses Carolyn. She came by to tell me about her cancer, but I hadn’t heard from her since Carolyn died. She came to the funeral, but hardly spoke to me. They all feel sorry for me, but I’m the lucky one, I got out of that marriage.

  He reached for the TV remote control, turning on the television. He became interested in a news story, forgetting about the hunting equipment in his bedroom.

  *****

  “Okay, Bobby,” Piper said. “I’m sending you these files...”

  Bobby sat on the couch in the apartment, cell phone at his ear, HP Notebook in his lap. He was sleepy from the medication, but the two broken fingers on his right hand remained numb, the middle and index wrapped tight in a splint. Rick had created a clean break, considering how enraged he had been.

  Rick had found money missing from his wallet early that morning. Delia had left for work, and Bobby was alone with his brother. Rick accused Bobby of stealing from his wallet, and Bobby made the mistake of mentioning that Rick had been at the Blue Diamond club-house the night before.

  “Maybe one of those meth-heads stole your money,” Bobby said. “Dental work isn’t cheap.”

  Bobby took a good slap for that remark. While he was trying to regain his balance, Rick gripped his fingers. Bobby heard the bones crack before he felt the pain. His eyes widened and Rick dropped his hand, running out of the apartment.

  Bobby called his Aunt Sharon who sent an ambulance. She contacted his mother, promising that Child Protective Services would not get involved, although Delia wanted Rick in jail.

  Rick had returned to the apartment and was promptly arrested by Sharon. Delia brought Bobby home and returned to work. He had been sleeping on the couch when Piper called. She explained her situation, and Bobby agreed to let her forward Justine’s e-mails.

  “What he did to you was assault,” Piper said. “He should stay in jail.”

  Bobby’s tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth. “I think it was what I said about the Blue Diamond club-house. I suggested that someone there could have stolen his money.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know, he wouldn’t say. I’ve got your messages now. Can I read them?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Bobby opened the e-mail Robin read that morning, his fuzzy gaze trying to take in every word:

  “I wait for your arrival, all excited to see you, to hear your voice, imploring with me to reveal the identity of the Ravisher, but you will let me lead you on, won’t you? Your little piggies can wait, because the last one was a senior, not a friend of theirs. What was her name? And who cares? The Ravisher, I’m sure, is planning his next conquest. He is the lone seducer and a lucky fool. He is the one they don’t know how to look for, mercury slipping between their sweaty fingers. Soon, there will be piggies giving up their pearls to feel his blade. They will surrender, imagining themselves the perfect swan princess to his dark prince. You know that some of them want the attention, to see under his mask...”

  Bobby shook his head. “She really wants to see you.”

  “I can’t wait much longer,” Piper said. “She knows something.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Justine doesn’t care about anyone but herself, but she seems intrigued with what the Ravisher is doing; I think she found someone she could respect, and a guy, no less. That’s a big deal.”

  “Is that what you’re reading into this, Princess?” Bobby asked.

  “She doesn’t just want attention from me. She didn’t always respect me, but she trusted me. It’s just the opposite with this guy.”

  “Do you think she’s afraid of him?” Bobby asked.

  “Yes, and Justine is almost fearless.”

  “She’s crazy.”

  “We’re dealing with a lot of crazy, Bobby.”

  “Do you still want me to take you out to Haven Rest?”

  “Let’s wait a day or two.”

  Part Two-The Hunt

  Chapter Ten

  The boy was alone in the house; his mother at work, his father out.

  He did not want to imagine what his father was doing, because it was easier for the boy to live up to his promise that way, but forgetting the dead lady had been difficult.

  The excitement over a new baby was helping. The boy was not jealous, on
ly hoping that this baby would live, and his father would be nice to it. The boy had become used to being an only child again, but the lonliness was starting to feel worse, so he was ready to welcome a new little brother or sister.

  He left the TV to go to the kitchen. He found the potato chips, taking the bag into the living room. He sat on the couch, where he usually slept until his mother came home.

  He had not seen much of his father since the day at the river, when he touched the dead woman. The boy spent days preoccupied with the fantasy of her awakening, dragging herself out of the water, twigs and leaves in her dripping hair. She would open her eyes, remembering how she died. She would keep walking, cold and naked, looking for his father, finding their house—

  The boy shook his head, trying to erase the image from his mind. The living room was dark, so he turned on a lamp. He pulled back the front curtain, but she was not standing at the porch. He was not going to look for her anywhere else, he did not want to go out to the backyard. The neighbors were not supposed to know he was alone.

  He slid off the couch and laid down on his belly on the floor. His mother had bought him a new package of crayons and big sheets of paper. He could create whatever he wanted; no one had to find his drawings, or he could throw them away. His father would never look.

  The boy picked up the black crayon and began to draw her head and hair. A neck and shoulders. He was past stick figures, going for arms and hands, hips and thighs. He tried to draw feet, but returned to her face, the point of the crayon just skimming the surface of the paper.

  He thought for a moment, about the swollen lips and eyelids, how she must still be sleeping in the river. But he did not have to worry; she was only a bad dream.

  He put the crayon down, abandoning the drawing. He crumpled the paper between his fingers, making a ball. He stuffed it under the couch. When he was done, he grabbed the TV remote control and channel surfed, looking for anything to occupy his mind.

  *****

  Cal drove his old Saturn through the entrance of Whispering Pines.

  The time was around eight-thirty that morning. Cal was on his way to the Marine Press when he received a call from Detective Ben Garcia of the Marine Police Department, who informed Cal that an empty house at Whispering Pines had been stripped. Garcia, who knew Cal was writing articles on the Ravisher, had already questioned the remaining inhabitants of Whispering Pines weeks ago, in connection with Jessica Holden’s attack. He wanted Cal to come by to compare notes.

  “I also have some info that might help us both,” Garcia said. “The closest thing we may have to a witness.”

  Cal stared at the two-story houses with the large garages and paved driveways, most of which were of a similar design but in different colors, wooden decks surrounding thousands of square feet.

  Whispering Pines was considered a failure by the locals, a casualty of the sub-prime mortgage bubble bursting. During his drive, Cal noticed several realtor’s signs in the front yards, a reminder of what he had been through over the last year.

  Cal slowly passed each house until he found the sprawling, two-story beige and white home in the cul-de-sac, a squad car and two other vehicles in the driveway. Several people were standing in the backyard.

  Cal parked against the curb. He walked up the driveway and spotted the tall, black-haired Detective Garcia standing by a plump older woman and a teenaged boy.

  “Good morning,” Garcia said.

  He introduced Cal to Mrs. Connelly and her son. “These two saw what was going on, thinking it was a burglary. But the foreclosure notice in the window tells me differently. Let’s go in.”

  Cal followed Garcia through the front door, Garcia unzipping his fleece jacket as he entered. He had a tendency to dress more like a factory worker than a veteran police detective. “No forced entry. I think they were still holding on to a key.”

  Cal did not miss the smirk on Garcia’s face. “The owners returned?”

  “Their last name is Singer, and Mrs. Connelly told me that they were devastated by the foreclosure. They moved out a week ago, but I guess they decided to take as much of their house with them as they could.“ When he and Cal entered the foyer, Garcia pointed up. “Take a look.”

  Cal raised his head, the wires hanging from the ceiling, the paint and plaster torn away. “They took the chandelier?”

  “That’s just the beginning.”

  Cal followed Garcia through the living room. They stepped on the foam lining that remained after the carpet was ripped out. Other light fixtures were gone, including the ceiling fan. Wires were hanging low in the dining room, brushing against their heads.

  The kitchen had been almost gutted; the island counter, cabinets, and appliances were all gone, even the sink.

  “Wait until you see the bathroom,” Garcia said.

  “I can only imagine.”

  Cal found himself gawking at the spaces where the toilet, sink, and tub used to be, the tile cracked. The medicine cabinet and overhead light fixture were gone.

  “How were they able to pull this off?” Cal asked. “It would take days, someone would notice.”

  Garcia pulled a small notepad out of his pocket. “The Singers kept coming back, but no one really noticed, which I think is fishy. Some of the neighbors knew what the family was up to, but did nothing to stop them. I think they felt sorry for them. Mrs. Connelly only called 9-1-1 because she had never been on friendly terms with the Singers, something to do with a disagreement about their dogs. This might just be a way of getting back at them, considering the others turned a blind eye.”

  “Seeing someone load up a truck with the kitchen cabinets would be hard to miss,” Cal said.

  “Not to mention the central air conditioning unit from the backyard and the hot water heater.”

  “What about the furnace?”

  “They didn’t take all of it.”

  Cal suppressed his laughter, but could not hide his grin. “I suppose they could sell the stuff.”

  Garcia nodded, but he was not amused. “Help with the rent or whatever apartment or trailer they were forced into. My daughter’s home was foreclosed on after her divorce. She and my grandson had to go into an apartment and I’ve got the dog.” Garcia opened his notepad. “Here’s what I thought you might be interested in.” He flipped through his notes until he came to the right page. “Brenda Wallace. Lives just down the lane. Divorced. She’s a nurse that worked first shift at Marine General Hospital up until a few weeks ago, when she was switched to third. She took her daughter Melanie to her first day of school at the Marine Christian Academy. When she was pulling out of the driveway, Brenda and Melanie saw someone running past them on the lane, disappearing into the woods, around seven forty-five. They thought he was a jogger, but he was dressed in black. They saw dark hair, no ski mask. They couldn’t make out his features, just the back of him.”

  “When did you get this information?” Cal asked.

  “Days after the attack on Kristen Beck. Mrs. Wallace didn’t think of it until after she read one of your articles. Melanie often goes on the Blue and White blog, she has friends at East Marine. She reminded her mother of the jogger, and talked Brenda into calling headquarters, and she was referred to me.”

  “That’s interesting,” Cal said. “But I would need more for a story.”

  “Yes, you would.”

  Cal noticed the small smile creep across Garcia’s face. He must have been handsome once, but had gained weight over the years, his fondness for drinking at Champs bar, just across from the courthouse, well-known among members of the MPD. He was a good poker player, his cool demeanor and steady, dark gaze getting him through almost forty years of police work. Cal respected patient people and Garcia also had a gentleness about him, more suitable for teaching or caretaking.

  “Is there more you’d like to tell me?” Cal asked.

  Garcia shrugged. “This guy is running alone through Whisp
ering Pines; no vehicle can be seen and he’s concealing his face? He’s only yards from Jessica Holden’s house. Why was he running from Whispering Pines? I’ve seen Brenda Wallace’s house, which is at the other end of this lane. Where did he park his car?”

  Cal was still unsure what Garcia wanted from him, but he tried to answer. “Was he running from or to something?”

  “Not something, someone.”

  “Jessica?”

  Garcia nodded. “Very possible. I’m trying to find a pattern. Melanie is fifteen years old. She was going to take the bus that morning, but her mother decided to give her a ride. There are only four other girls at Whispering Pines that are around fifteen years old. These girls live in houses closer to the entrance. They wouldn’t have needed to walk far to get to their bus stop. The kids would be collected there, but Melanie had a longer walk to her stop, standing alone for the Christian school bus, which comes later, but she also waits at the entrance. Jessica’s stop is at the end of her block, and she makes a left from the end of her driveway to get there.”

  “Do you think the Ravisher was aware of their longer routes?” Cal asked.

  Garcia nodded. “I think he was planning to attack two girls that morning. Mrs. Wallace’s schedule was changed, and that screwed him up. Then he went running to Jessica’s house.”

  “Circumstantial at best, Ben.”

  “But I think I’m getting closer, don’t you? The attacker took Jessica Holden’s ring and Kristen’s watch. He has yet to contact Kristen. He could be a collector. I’ve dealt with those before; the guy that steals women’s underwear from their homes or takes photos of them without their knowledge. And it could help, because he isn’t leaving anything behind, he’s taking things instead.”

  “How come there hasn’t been so much as a hair found?” Cal asked.

  “He‘s being very careful, but he‘ll get cocky and make a mistake. They all do.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice that every other house in this place is for sale...”

  “Brenda Wallace is also selling her place. She’s already taken five thousand off her original price.” Garcia waved his hand around. “Can you believe the house payments? Up to three thousand dollars a month.”

  “My parents believed that if you owned your house, you had made it. Now, that’s nothing but a myth.”