The 4th Man, Page 5

  My little sister would giggle. She liked my mother in this mood. Who wouldn’t?

  Dad was usually at work. Bringing home the bacon. When he had a job. Gas station attendant. Night clerk. Warehouse stocker.

  Stay in school, he’d tell me, afternoons when we came home in time to watch him button up yet another grimy uniform. Fucking real world, he’d tell me. Fucking bosses.

  Then off he’d go. And my mom would appear from the hazy cloud of their bedroom to start dinner. Or the door would never open, and I’d get out a can opener instead. Chef Boyardee. Campbell’s soup. Baked beans.

  My sister and I didn’t talk those nights. We ate in silence. Then I’d read her more Clifford, or maybe we’d play Go Fish. Quiet games for quiet kids. My sister would fall asleep on the sofa. Then I’d pick her up, carry her off to bed.

  “Sorry,” she’d say sleepily, though neither of us knew what she was apologizing for.

  Had a family once.

  Father. Mother. Sister.

  But then the father worked less and less and drank more and more. And the mother . . . Dunno. Drugs, booze, her own foggy mind? Parental units appeared less and less to cook, clean, work. More and more to fight, scream, yell. Mom, hurling plastic plates across the kitchen. Dad, punching a hole through the cheap drywall. Then both would guzzle more vodka and do the whole thing all over again.

  Sister took to sleeping in my room, while I sat by the door. ’Cause sometimes, the parents had guests over. Other boozers, druggies, losers. Then all bets were off. Three, four, five in the morning. Locked doorknob rattling, strange voices crooning, “Hey, little kids, come out and play with us. . . .”

  My sister didn’t giggle anymore. She slept with the light on, ragged copy of Clifford clutched in her hands.

  While I kept watch with a baseball bat balanced across my knees.

  Then, morning. House finally quiet. Strangers passed out on the floor. As we crept around them, stealing into the kitchen for the Cheerios box, then grabbing our backpacks and tiptoeing out the door.

  Rinse, spin, repeat.

  Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

  Had a family once.

  But then the father drank or shot up or snorted too much. And the mom—envelopes of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume—started to scream and scream and scream. While my sister and I watched wide-eyed from the sofa.

  “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” the father yelled.

  Scream. Scream. Scream.

  “Fucking bitch! What’s wrong with you?”

  Scream. Scream. Scream.

  “I said, SHUT UP!”

  Kitchen knife. Big one. Butcher knife, like from a slasher film. Did she grab it? Did he? Don’t remember who had it first. Can only tell you who had it last.

  My father. Raising the knife up. Bringing the knife down. Then my mother wasn’t screaming anymore.

  “Shit!”

  My father, turning to my sister and me. Bloody knife, drip, drip, drip. And I knew then what he’d do next.

  “Run,” I told my little sister as I dragged her off the sofa, shoved her toward the hall.

  The shag carpet slowed him down. But the peeling linoleum tripped us up. As we raced through the double-wide, silent in our terror, I passed my sister, scooped her up, little legs still churning through the air.

  I could hear him, right behind me. I could feel his breath on my neck, already picture the blade slicing between my bony shoulder blades. I threw my sister into my bedroom.

  “Lock the door!”

  Then sprinting down the hall, my father and his bloody knife close behind.

  I bolted into my parents’ bedroom. Leapt onto the bed.

  “Fucking kid. Stay still, stay still, stay still.”

  Knife going up, knife going down. Shredding the bedding. Tearing into the mattress.

  I jumped down the other side. Grabbed anything I could find from the top of the bureau. Empty wine bottles, beer cans, perfume. Hurled them into my father’s beet-red face.

  “Shit shit shit.”

  Then, as he staggered, I jumped back over the bed, whirling around him. I heard the slash of the knife. Felt the burning pain in my shoulder. But then I was clear, hammering down the hall. If I could make it out the front door, into the yard, cry for the neighbors . . .

  And leave my little sister behind?

  Then she was there. Standing in my bedroom doorway. Holding out the baseball bat.

  I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the wooden bat. I raced into the family room, turning at the last second, assuming the proper stance.

  My father. Wild eyes. Flushed face. Lights on, I thought, but no one home.

  He raised the bloody knife.

  I swung with all my might. Felt the connection, a solid, wet smack, as I knocked it out of the park. My father, falling down, down, down, knife dropping into the carpet.

  And still I swung the bat. Bam. Bam. Bam.

  Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

  My little sister, suddenly appearing beside me.

  “Telly, Telly, Telly.”

  Myself, looking up. Wild eyes. Flushed face. Lights on but no one home.

  “Telly!” my baby sister cried one last time. As I lifted the bat.

  Had a family.

  Once.

  ***

  Sheriff Shelly Atkins met her lead homicide sergeant, Roy Peterson, at the scene, followed shortly by his team, then Deputy Dan Mitchell. Roy put his detectives to work, then paused long enough to confer with Shelly and Dan outside the EZ Gas. The sweltering August heat had already darkened their uniforms with sweat but was still easier to take than the rapidly increasing stench of blood and gore inside the tiny convenience store.

  No sign of media yet, which just went to show there were some advantages to being a backwoods town. Given that Bakersville was nestled equidistant between the bustling metropolis of Portland, Oregon, and political fuss of the state’s capital, Salem, Shelly didn’t expect that situation to last for long. Ninety minutes was an easy enough drive for a rabid reporter hell-bent on the latest tale of violence. Though sadly, a convenience store shooting was hardly newsworthy in this day and age. Only the location of the murders—the proverbial small town—would make it a story of note.

  “Call came into dispatch eight oh four a.m.,” Shelly related to her sergeant, tone clipped. “Report of shots fired. I arrived on scene at approximately eight sixteen a.m., discovering two bodies inside. One a young male, approximately midtwenties. Second a young female, eighteen, nineteen years of age. Both appear to have been shot multiple times.”

  “Owner of the store?” Roy quizzed.

  “Don Juarez,” Shelly answered, having already asked dispatch the same question. “I spoke to him briefly by phone. He was headed to Salem but is returning now. He tentatively identified the cashier as Erin Hill—at least that’s who was scheduled to work this morning, and the body matches her description. She’s from a local family. I already contacted Officer Estevan, asked her to pay the parents a visit.”

  “And the DOA male?” Roy asked.

  “No ID, no wallet. Maybe shooter grabbed it on his way out. Truck outside is registered to a fishing charter company. We’ll need to fax the vehicle registration over to our counterparts in Nehalem. Maybe one of them can get us a name.”

  “Got Rebecca and Hal photographing the scene, bagging and tagging evidence,” Roy reported. “ME should be here shortly. So far, we’ve recovered nine shell casings, one slug.”

  “Nine shots for two victims?” Shelly shook her head. “Seems a bit much.”

  “Male customer was shot three times to the chest, once to the head. Female clerk the same: single shot to the head, three to the torso, including one slug through the palm of her hand.”

  “Weapon?” Shelly asked.

  “Recovered slug appears to be nine m
illimeter.”

  Shelly sighed. Nine-millimeter handguns were common enough, especially around here. Certainly wouldn’t narrow their search any.

  Dan spoke up. “That’s eight bullets.”

  Roy and Shelly glanced at him.

  “Four shots for each victim,” Dan supplied. “Eight bullets. But you mentioned nine casings. So where’s the last shot?”

  “Oh. Haven’t gotten to that part yet.” Shelly smiled grimly. “Turns out, we got a third victim: store security camera. Which, with any luck at all, might be our lone witness.”

  Here was the issue: Security cameras fell under the umbrella of technology. Being a rural county department, Bakersville didn’t have a technology expert or forensic computer tech. Meaning, their safest bet was to wait for assistance from the state police. Except, Shelly didn’t feel like waiting.

  She had a double homicide in a town that saw only a handful of murders each year. Community leaders would be demanding answers sooner rather than later. Hell, Shelly wanted answers sooner rather than later.

  On the other hand, botch recovery of the video and they’d be ruining one of the only leads they had.

  “Business of this size, location,” Roy was saying now, “how sophisticated can the security system be? Odds are, it was picked up at an office superstore. Nothing so sophisticated three well-trained members of law enforcement couldn’t figure it out.”

  Both Roy and Shelly turned to Dan. He was their resident tech expert. Which was to say, he was the youngest member on the force and the one who managed their online community outreach.

  “You saw the camera?” he asked Shelly.

  “Mounted behind the cash register, up near the ceiling.”

  “Big, little, old, new?”

  “Small. Well, what remained of it. Black plastic,” she added helpfully.

  “So an electronic eye.” Dan nodded. “In that case, actual footage is most likely recorded to a DVR. This place got a back office?”

  “Yeah, straight through there.”

  Shelly pointed to the open door of the EZ Gas, where a flash of light indicated the detectives were still snapping photos. The other downside of attempting to retrieve the security video now; they risked further contamination of the crime scene.

  “What do you want to do?” Roy asked her.

  “I don’t want to wait an hour for state assist,” Shelly said.

  Roy grimaced. “An hour? I’m guessing more like half a day.”

  “True. All right. Dan, you’re with me. If the security system seems too complicated, we can always call the owner for assistance. But somewhere out there is a double murderer. I want to see his face.”

  The flies were everywhere. Shelly grimaced as they buzzed thickly over the holes in the first victim’s chest, forehead. Her first instinct was to shoo them away, but she knew from experience there wouldn’t be any point.

  Hal looked up from his camera, greeting her and Dan with a small nod of acknowledgment. They nodded back, none of them speaking. Air was hotter in here, the stench of blood and death forcing them to breathe through their mouths.

  Shelly kept as far right as possible, Dan following in her footsteps, so they would disturb the area the least amount possible. They sidled past the body, then tiptoed down the outer aisle to arrive at the wall of cold drinks. In front of the refrigeration units, the air felt marginally cooler, and Shelly exhaled softly. From this vantage point, she could look back toward the front door and take in nearly all of the small, six-aisle store. The front counter, to the right of the door, was partially obscured by bags of chips. But looking up, Shelly could see the camera in question. A small black eye, now dangling haphazardly, the lens shattered by a bullet.

  “Good shot,” she murmured.

  Dan shrugged. “For all we know, he was standing right beneath it at the time.”

  “All the better to see you with,” Shelly agreed, leading the way past the refrigeration units to a plain wooden door marked employees only.

  The office door was locked. Dan grimaced, probably already wondering which of them would have to search the dead cashier for the key. Shelly, however, had a better idea. Snapping on gloves, she raised one hand, ran it along the top of the door frame, and sure enough . . .

  She smiled. Dan chuckled softly. Then, as if realizing how out of place such a thing sounded, both fell back to silence.

  Shelly inserted the plain brass key into the lock, eased the door open.

  If the small convenience store was hot, the windowless back office was stifling. In a coastal town known for mild temperatures, plenty of places didn’t have air conditioning, and this store was no exception. When Shelly snapped on the overhead light, she discovered a tiny fan perched on a top shelf, someone’s idea of heat relief. Otherwise, the standing-room-only space contained a plank of wood topping two dinged-up metal filing cabinets, a battered-looking laptop, and sure enough, a DVR, matte black, clearly new, stuck in a back corner with an attached monitor.

  “Looks like a recent purchase,” Dan said from behind Shelly’s shoulder. The small space forced them to stand close, which only made the heat that much more uncomfortable.

  “Recent thefts, suspicions?” Shelly murmured. The security system was a lucky break. Even basic models were over a hundred bucks, which, for a business that looked as worn and tired as this one, couldn’t have been an easy expense.

  She shifted to the side, sucking in her gut as Dan squeezed past, eyeing the DVR.

  “Most systems offer immediate playback,” Dan said, already punching buttons on the DVR.

  He worked his tech magic, then an icon for SuperSecurity appeared on the monitor. A few seconds later, the screen filled with the top-back view of a woman’s head.

  The cashier, Shelly thought, Erin Hill, who’d started work at four a.m. and dutifully activated the security system.

  Dan fiddled again, moving them forward in time: Five a.m. Six. Seven. Seven thirty, then . . .

  Not a bad image. Fixed, which was a little disorienting. Black and white. Customers appeared and disappeared from the side of the screen, while the back of Erin’s head remained dead center. From time to time, she also disappeared, maybe sitting down to read a book, or, more likely, play on her phone, during the lulls.

  Seven fifty-three a.m. The male victim appeared. Shelly made out the side of his face as he briefly walked into the store, then disappeared down the aisle in search of chips. Thirty seconds. Forty. Fifty. The man reappeared, full face shot now as he stood at the counter and dug around in his pocket for a wad of cash.

  No audio. They could see but not hear. Given that the guy’s mouth was moving, he was saying something to Erin. She must’ve replied because he appeared to laugh in response. Then he pocketed his change. Grabbed his bag of chips. Turned toward the entrance.

  Suddenly, his arms flew into the air. His body seemed to jerk, then stumble back, then jerk again.

  He went down, his head disappearing offscreen till they were left with only the image of his sprawled legs.

  Erin turned, her dark hair, their single focal point, suddenly whipping around. She gazed up at the camera, eyes wide, terrified.

  Shelly couldn’t see her mouth. Only the top half of her face. Was she screaming, was she trying to tell them something? At the side of the screen, a bare forearm came into view. Holding a gun. Pop, pop, pop.

  And Erin disappeared from sight.

  A life ended. Just like that.

  Shelly found herself leaning over Dan’s shoulder, staring at the video intently, as the shooter’s arm came down, vanished off the screen. No, no, the shooter had to appear. He still had to take out the camera. A lull. Maybe the shooter pausing to check around outside, see if the sound of shots aroused any nearby suspicions. Or maybe he did rifle through the first victim’s truck.

  But eventually, three, four, five mi
nutes later . . .

  A lone figure walked into view. Not a man. A kid. Younger than even his first victim, maybe even younger than Erin Hill. Wearing a bulky black hoodie, sleeves balled up to his elbows but still totally inappropriate for a ninety-degree August morning. The boy approached the counter. He didn’t look back at his first victim, nor down at his second. Instead, he peered directly up at the camera. Stared straight at it.

  Wearing the flattest expression Shelly had ever seen. No remorse, no glee, not a drop of sweat on his brow.

  The dark-eyed boy stared at Shelly through the lens.

  Then he raised his arm and fired.

  Shelly had to take a moment to get her breath back. Leaning over the monitor, Dan wasn’t doing much better.

  “Recognize him at all?” Shelly asked her deputy.

  “No.”

  “Me neither.” She doubted it mattered. An image this good, a description this solid, they should have a name within hours.

  “He didn’t take money,” Dan murmured.

  “No.”

  “Didn’t even talk to them. Just . . . walked in. Murdered two people.”

  “I know.”

  “Did you see his eyes?”

  Shelly nodded. She understood what her deputy was trying to say.

  “What happened here?” Dan asked, his voice more plaintive now.

  “I don’t know,” she told him honestly. “But I know who to ask: Pierce Quincy. If this video is anything to go by, we’re gonna need a profiler’s insights. But the shooter’s motivation isn’t our biggest question yet.”

  “What’s our biggest question?”

  “A kid who kills this easily—is he done yet?”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lisa Gardner is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of eighteen previous novels, including her most recent, Find Her. Her Detective D. D. Warren novels include Find Her, Fear Nothing, Catch Me, Love You More, and The Neighbor, which won the International Thriller of the Year Award. Her FBI Profiler novels include Gone, The Next Accident, and The Third Victim. She lives with her family in New England.