Robert Browne - Kill Her Again

His mind made up, The Ghost set the field glasses down, started his engine, and rolled down the street.

Estimated time of completion was six minutes and counting.

They weren’t quite sure what they had when they opened the notebook.

Susan Pope’s ramblings about tracking the bogeyman had been promising at best, but there had been no guarantees that it would amount to anything substantial.

What they discovered was that this mentally ill woman, this shy research assistant from Salcedo, California, had spent a large portion of her life nursing an obsession. The notebook was filled with photographs, drawings, newspaper clippings, Internet print-outs, and coded writings. It would take hours to sift through it all and decipher the language.

The first page held three faded photographs, under the handwritten caption For Jillian:

A school portrait of a pretty young girl in a lavender blouse; a shot of the same girl wearing a pink one-piece at the community pool; one of a much younger version, holding a Jack Russell terrier in her arms.

“Mr. Stinky,” Anna said, touching the photo.

“You remember?”

“Yes.”

Anna stared at the photographs and realized that Susan had been right. There was no mistake that Jillian and Anna shared the same eyes. And based on these eyes alone, Anna would swear she was looking in a mirror.

But this wasn’t the first time she’d seen them. She suddenly remembered an image from her trance. The locket dangling from the Rambler’s rearview mirror.

The girl inside that locket.

The gypsy girl.

She’d had the very same eyes.

The Ghost couldn’t believe his luck.

The neighbors to the rear of the target house were not yet home, and slipping into their backyard undetected had merely been a matter of timing. People in the houses on either side were busy doing Whatever families do, and he hadn’t even had to throw on his gas company uniform to complete the task.

Within moments he was up and over the back fence and dropping to the ground in the target’s backyard, which, from what he could tell, had seen better days. There was a swing set to his left and a sandbox full of abandoned Tonka trucks, and it suddenly occurred to The Ghost that this might be Pope’s house. The very same house Pope had tried to sign over to Troy several times in the past.

Troy’s refusal to accept it had always been a mystery to The Ghost. The man was certainly no humanitarian. But maybe he felt uncomfortable taking ownership of a house that had once been home to a nut job and the boy she torched.

Even The Ghost felt a small chill of discomfort at the thought of it.

There was still light in the attic. Taking a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket, he snapped them on, then removed his weapon from his waistband and checked the magazine. He had considered using a knife for this assignment, but didn’t want to be bothered with cleanup. Instead, he screwed a homemade suppressor onto the tip of his weapon, then quickly crossed the yard and slipped in through the open rear door.

He felt fairly confident that he hadn’t been seen. Navigating the dark would be difficult, but he couldn’t risk using a penlight.

Stepping past a kitchen doorway, he hugged the wall and worked his way into the living room, which was partially illuminated by light from the street.

He could hear Worthington out front, still on the phone.

But as he neared the stairs, The Ghost paused, slightly unnerved by the sudden sensation that he wasn’t alone down here.

He turned quickly, surveying the room, but saw no one. Empty shadows. He was again tempted to use his penlight, but decided against it.

He stood there a moment, waiting, and nothing changed. The living room was still and quiet.

False alarm, he thought, then started up the stairs to the second floor.

“ We need a brighter light and a pot full of coffee,” Pope said.

He was feeling claustrophobic. Needed to get out of here.

The sight of the notebook, the drawings, the scratchy, handwritten passages, served as a reminder of how little he’d known about Susan and how he’d failed her. And Ben.

She’d had an obsession that afforded no room for outsiders. And despite his animosity toward her, he couldn’t help feeling as if he was invading her privacy. Peeking in on a part of her life that she’d never intended to share.

It would have to be done, yes, but not here. Not in this house. He needed to be far away from this place and the memories it held. The guilt he felt.

He suddenly realized McBride was staring at him.

“What?”

She closed the notebook. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

He just looked at her.

Was she a mind reader now?

“What are you talking about?”

“What happened to your son. It’s not your fault.” She held up the notebook, shook it. “It’s his. He did this to Susan. The damage was done long before you even entered her life.”

Pope shook his head. “I should’ve known what she was capable of. I should’ve stopped her.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I could’ve paid more attention. Gotten her help. Not allowed myself to get so wrapped up in my work.”

“She was hiding from you, Danny. Don’t you get it? She didn’t want you to know about her dark side. She didn’t want anyone to know. And even if you had known, there’s no way you could’ve gone back and erased what happened to her and Jillian.”

“Doesn’t matter. I should’ve protected him. I should’ve protected my boy.”

“From his mother?” Anna said. “Think about that. There’s no way you could have known she’d harm her own son. You did what a husband and father are supposed to do. You loved them unconditionally. No one could ever blame you for that.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing about this is simple. But your blame is misplaced. It’s not your fault.”

Her words hit home and Pope felt tears in his eyes. He started to turn away, but McBride reached up, touching his cheek.

“It’s not your fault,” she said again.

Then she surprised him by leaning toward him and kissing his tears. And before he realized what he was doing, he turned into the kiss, pressing his lips against hers.

They stayed that way for a long moment, savoring it. And despite all the women he’d been with-the tourists, the showgirls he’d used to numb his pain-he’d never felt anything like this, the odd sensation of familiarity, as if this weren’t the first time he’d kissed her. As if they were long-lost lovers, reunited at last.

When they pulled away from each other, McBride seemed embarrassed by her impulsiveness.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be.”

Then he took the notebook from her, set it atop a nearby box, and pulled her into his arms, kissing her again. He lost himself in it, all of his troubles melting away, taking the room, the house, and the not-so-simple world with them. A feat that, until this moment, he’d thought impossible.

After a while, he said, “We need to get out of here. Find a nice, bright coffee shop and get to work.”

McBride nodded, kissed his cheek, then pulled away from him and picked up the notebook, carrying it down the steps.

Pope turned, taking a last look around the room, staring at a part of his own past life. A life he could never go back to. Then he doused the light and followed her.

But when he reached the bottom of the steps, McBride was nowhere in sight.

“Anna?”

No answer.

“Anna, where the hell did you-”

“Over here, Danny.”

But it wasn’t McBride’s voice.

Pope swung around and froze when he saw two figures step out of the shadows near the bathroom.

The Ghost.

Holding a gun to McBride’s head.