John Saul - Black Lightning

“But my kids,” Anne said, the last of her hard reporter’s shell cracking. “What about my kids? What should I tell them?”

“If it were me,” Lois Ackerly said, “I think at least for tonight I’d tell them we think a raccoon did it.” When Anne started to object, Ackerly pressed on. “Look, there’s no sense scaring your kids to death. You’ll be worried enough without them having nightmares about it. Tomorrow we should be able to tell you a lot more.”

Before Anne could ask anything else, the back door of the house opened and Glen emerged, carrying a white plastic garbage bag.

Though she hated herself for it, and felt utterly disloyal, Anne did nothing to break the silence that fell over the two detectives as her husband approached. Instead, turning finally away from the grisly remains of her daughter’s pet, she returned to the house.

As Glen handed Mark Blakemoor the plastic bags he’d finally found in one of the kitchen drawers, he felt the detective’s eyes boring into him. Though no words were spoken, none were needed. Desperately, Glen tried to sort out exactly what had happened. Was it really possible that he himself had disemboweled his daughter’s pet?

But he had no memory of it.

Except that there was a memory — a vague memory — of a dream.

He’d been in a place of darkness, but there had been a pool of light.

In the middle of the light, something had been happening.

He’d moved closer, wanting to see, but there had been something in the way, something blocking his view. He had a fragmentary recollection of trying to move in the dream. To get away? To see? He couldn’t remember.

Then another fragment of the dream floated up into his consciousness. Red. Bloodred. And with the memory of the color came a strange sensation in his fingers. Warmth. No, more than warmth. Heat. His hands felt hot, and slimy.

Shuddering both at the memory and at the strange feeling in his fingers, Glen slid his hands into his pockets as if to hide them, then quickly pulled them out again. What was wrong? He had nothing to hide — he couldn’t even remember what the dream was about.

All that had really happened was that Mark Blakemoor had given him a look that made him feel guilty.

Still, a coldness seized Glen that had nothing to do with the damp chill of the afternoon.

Who was the stranger in the dream?

Could someone have come into the house while he slept? He remembered yesterday, and the inexplicable appearance of the shaver and the fishing rod. He must have bought them, but he couldn’t remember!

Could he also have killed Kumquat and not remembered that, either?

It wasn’t possible. Surely he hadn’t done this to Kumquat. He couldn’t have! It had only been a dream!

Or was he losing his mind?

Anne found Heather and Rayette still in the living room, still on the sofa, Heather crying quietly as Rayette did her best to comfort her.

Kevin was nowhere to be seen, but Anne was pretty sure she knew where he was: up in his room, watching from his window as Lois Ackerly and Mark Blakemoor finished their work.

Knowing there was nothing she could say to Heather right now, Anne went into the den, dropping morosely into the chair in front of her computer. For a moment she simply sat there, her eyes focused on nothing, her mind numbly trying to sort out all the events of the day, futilely attempting to make sense of the utterly senseless.

Write it, she finally told herself as her thoughts continued to tumble chaotically. Write it all down. It’s the only way to put it in order.

She switched on the computer and waited while it booted up. The orders issued by the autoexec file scrolled by, then the familiar Windows screen appeared. But instead of stopping to await her orders, the computer kept working.

Her word processing program opened, but still the computer didn’t stop.

An image appeared, framed in the familiar border of a graphics box. Inside the frame was a note:

Too bad about the cat.

Some experiments just don’t work.

That’s when things die.

I’ll try to do better with you.

By the time the words had registered on Anne’s mind, the screen had gone blank. For a moment Anne wondered if she had seen the note at all.

The hard knot of terror in her belly assured her that she had.

There was a fresh stack of the morning Herald in the box in front of the 7-Eleven on Broadway, so at least he hadn’t had to walk all the way up to the QFC store to find one. But even now, gazing at the box with his heart beginning to race as he thought of the story that was bound to be on the front page, he felt a cold chill of apprehension. What if someone were watching?

He glanced around and instantly regretted the action: even that simple movement would be enough to betray his nervousness to watching eyes.

There had been watching eyes all night long. How many times had he gotten up from his bed to peer out into the street below, only to see a police car cruising by?

Were they just looking because there had now been two murders on Capitol Hill?

Or were they looking for him?

Looking for the Butcher.

The Butcher.

The name had come to him sometime during the night, when he’d been thinking about what Anne Jeffers might have written about him. He’d committed two murders now, so they would be giving him a nickname. There had been the Son of Sam, and the Boston Strangler, and the Green River Killer. Of course, Richard Kraven had never had a nickname, but that was good.

Having a nickname himself would mean he was even more famous than Richard Kraven.

He was the Butcher.

The name had a strength he liked. Maybe he should send a note to Anne Jeffers tomorrow morning, and sign it that way. Then everyone in Seattle would be using it within a day or two.

The Butcher.

He’d thought about it all night long, savoring it, making it his own as he’d lain awake, waiting for morning to come.

Morning, and the early edition of the Herald. He would have gone out long before dawn, but with all the police cars out there, it would have been far too risky. So he’d waited. Waited until the shift at the hospital was changing and he could walk over to the 7-Eleven without being the only one on the street.

But now it was too late to buy a paper here — too late, and too dangerous, especially since he’d slipped, giving away his nervousness to anyone who might have been watching. Now he’d have to walk up Fifteenth the three blocks to the QFC.

Quality Food Center. Queens’ Food Center they called it on Broadway, which was why the Butcher never went to the one over there. But the QFC on Fifteenth was all right — he’d been there lots of times, and even if someone asked him why he wasn’t at work, he knew he looked pretty bad after the sleepless night. He’d just plead the flu, like he would when he called in sick for the third day in a row.

All he had to do was act normal. Normal and casual. Maybe pick up some magazines and soup, like he would have if he’d really had the flu.

All he had to do was be smart. And he knew he was smart, no matter what his mother thought. All he had to do was be careful and think everything through, and pretty soon he’d be famous.

At least as famous as Richard Kraven. Maybe even as famous as Ted Bundy.

As long as he didn’t get caught.

So he couldn’t just walk away from the 7-Eleven, either. He had to look like he’d come here for something. Turning casually away from the newspaper box, he went into the convenience store, wandered over to the magazine rack and pretended to be scanning the titles while he checked the store out to see who might be watching him.