Looking at his phone , as the obnoxious jackass who fancied himself a "journalist" blathered idiotically, it was all the man could do not to fling his phone across the room, screaming with rage. Someone had found his journal, and his trophies, wherever Kirke had hidden them, and now they actually thought they were going to stop him.
Forcing himself to breathe deeply, he managed to calm himself a bit, and sat down to think. He had always been aware, on some level, that there was a possibility that someone would eventually make the connection between some of his works, but he doubted seriously that anyone would ever connect them to him. He had worked diligently to build a solid reputation for himself in the community; he was the hard-working, clean-cut, respectable neighbor and co-worker, the good son who regularly visited his aging father, the coach for his nephew's ice-hockey team, and usually one of the first to volunteer for a charitable effort. So who would ever suspect that he was the one doing the work that everyone else was too lazy or indifferent to do? So far, the biggest annoyance that he usually had to deal with was the stream of running jokes from some of his co-workers, comparing him to an old sitcom character with whom he shared both a name and some personal habits. But he accepted these with good humor, inwardly chuckling as he realized how little they actually knew.
But now, things were getting a bit too close for comfort, so he needed to start tying up the loose ends. But where to begin? Turning his attention back to the sight of Elton Keel emoting to his "public", acting as if he actually gave a damn about the people he was ranting about, he considered his options. Sorting through the information he had available , he concluded that the easiest option was also the most practical to begin with. If he was lucky, it might even stop the investigation before it really got started.
He exited out of the website, cutting Keel off mid-sentence, and started scanning through various social media accounts. After only a few minutes, he found what he was looking for, and chuckled to himself. "This is going to be easier than I expected," he thought. "In fast, out fast, and I don't have to worry about anybody getting in my way."
Slipping his phone back into his pocket, he spent the next few minutes organizing his work station, before getting up and walking toward the door. He exchanged goodbyes with several of his co-workers on his way out, and stopped briefly to converse with another in the parking lot, whose son was also on his hockey team. Forcing himself to be patient, he finished the talk about strategies for the next game, then excused himself, and finally made it to his car.
After closing the door, he allowed himself a deep sigh, and then pulled out of the parking lot, aiming the car toward his sanctuary. After the incident with Kirke, he had realized the risks he was taking by keeping any evidence of his work in his home. A typical burglar like Kirke wasn't a real problem, to his way of thinking, but the burglary had forced him to consider what might happen if he ever became unexpectedly ill, or had an accident. Having his trophies at home left too much risk that his brother, or perhaps a co-worker, might stumble across them while looking for clothing or important paperwork if such an event occurred. And Leland was such a stickler for rules that there was no question that he would instantaneously turn over anything he found to the police, despite their relationship. No matter that he should understand better than almost anyone why his work was necessary , he would still not be capable of ignoring what "society" told him was right .
After driving several miles, he pulled his car into an isolated parking lot and got out of the vehicle. Opening the trunk, he unzipped the gym bag which sat next to several pieces of hockey equipment, and retrieved a wig from underneath the clothes inside. He placed it on his head, glancing into the side mirror to be sure that it was situated properly, and then removed his coat, replacing it with a battered leather bomber jacket. Once he was satisfied that he wouldn't be recognized if he were seen, he locked the car and began walking.
Three blocks further on, he finally reached his first destination: the storage unit he had rented, under a false name, the day after he had killed Kirke. Removing the keyring from his pocket, he unfastened the lock and opened the door, revealing the rather unorthodox contents of the unit: a pair of file cabinets, a dental chair, shackles mounted to the far wall, and the object of tonight's visit: an old, battered compact car. Bypassing his usual habit of browsing through his files, he unlocked the car, got behind the wheel, and pulled out of the unit. Stopping outside, he got out just long enough to close the door of the unit, then got back behind the wheel and began traveling to his next stop.
And as he drove, he momentarily removed one hand from the steering wheel and reached into his pocket, reassuring himself that he had everything that he needed. A smile crossed his face as he whispered to himself, "After tonight, you won't interfere with my work again."
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Marlena unlocked the front door , and sat the bag of takeout food she carried on the hall table as she punched in the alarm code. Then, after locking the door and reactivating the alarm, she carried the bag into the living room, and unloaded the contents onto the coffee table.
"Finally, some peace and quiet." she muttered. Gandalf, her son's huge black and gray Maine Coon cat, leapt from his perch on the windowsill, and wound around her ankles, attempting to investigate the containers. She bent down to scratch his ears, and said, "Come on in the kitchen, Gan, and I'll get your dinner. I don't think either of us would enjoy it much if you got into the General Tso's, buddy."
After feeding the cat, and grabbing a fork and a bottle of Sprite out of the refrigerator, she returned to the living room and turned on the television, flipping channels until she landed on a rerun of "Three's Company". She opened the takeout box and dug out a forkful. "This is exactly what I need after today. Junk food and mindless entertainment."
She ate her fill of the spicy chicken, stir-fried rice, and crab rangoon, then put the leftovers in the fridge, before Gandalf came looking for them again. Returning to the sofa, she indulged in another hour of old sitcoms before turning out the downstairs lights and heading up to the bedroom. With her daughter in a college dormitory, and her husband and son away on a school trip, she decided to make the most of the rare occurrence of an empty house. Unfastening her holster and laying it on the bed, she shed her clothes and walked into the bathroom. Running the water as hot as she could tolerate it, she ran a bath, with a large number of raspberry-scented bubbles, and sank into the tub to unwind.
She jolted up some time later, realizing that the water had gone cold, and the bathroom was dark. Muttering "Damn, I need to be careful about that. Falling asleep in the tub can be dangerous.", she stepped out onto the bathmat, groping for the towel. After locating it, and drying herself, she felt along the wall until she found the light switch, and flipped it several times, to no avail. Making a mental note to replace the bulb in the morning, she stepped out into the bedroom, only to find it dark as well.
"Great, another damn blackout." was her first thought, until she glanced toward the window, and realized that the neighbor's lights were still on. This made her uneasy, so she began moving toward the bed, to retrieve her weapon.
"Looking for this, Detective?" She whipped her head around, in the direction of the French doors leading to the balcony, and could just make out the outline of a tall figure, with her holster dangling from one hand. "Funny, I don't think you'll be needing it anymore." Tossing the weapon into the corner, the figure moved toward her.
As the intruder came around the end of the bed, she hurled herself across it, rolling to the other side and dashing toward the door, hoping to make it to Eric's room, where she would be able to grab his hunting rifle. She opened the door, and took a few steps into the hall before a hand wound itself into her hair and pulled her back.
"Nope, not gonna happen. We have entirely too much to discuss for you to leave the party now." As he spoke, she had the unsettling feeling that she had heard this voice before, but her brain wouldn't give up the information of where, or when.
Tightening his grip on her hair, the man moved her back toward the bed, and she attempted to engage him in conversation. "What do you want? You obviously know I'm a cop, so why are you here? Wait, let me guess ; I've arrested you at some point. Or was it one of your relatives?"
The intruder chuckled. "Do you really have to ask that question? This is your own fault, you know. You and that half-wit Keel don't know how to mind your own fucking business, so it seems that I need to educate you."
The mention of Elton Keel told her exactly who she was dealing with, and a sliver of panic began to work its way into her brain. She had missed that night's post, and wondered what the hell he'd said, that had led this psycho straight to her ...
He was in her house! Her brain raced to make sense of the fact, because she was diligent about making sure that her information wasn't available to the general public, and had drilled the same caution into Deirdre and Eric. So how the hell had he found the information so quickly?
As she racked her brain for answers, she felt a stinging sensation in her shoulder, and realized that he had just given her some sort of injection. In what seemed like mere seconds, she began to lose sensation in her limbs, and her breathing became somewhat labored. The man tossed her onto the bed, and chuckled again.
"I can see what you're thinking, and you're wrong. The injection isn't going to kill you, my dear, that would be utterly pointless. They would be too likely to dismiss your death as heart problems, or something of that nature, and that won't do at all. You need to be an example, to demonstrate what happens when someone thinks that they can interfere with my work, and get away with it. Oh, no, dear Marlena, I have something much different in mind for you."
As she lay helpless and immobile on the bed, the intruder stepped away for a moment, returning with a battery-powered lantern, which he turned on and placed on the nightstand. After doing this, he reached up and removed a pair of goggles from his face, giving her a clear look at him, and full-blown terror exploded in her chest. She now knew why his voice had seemed familiar, but she couldn't scream, couldn't even whimper. She could do nothing except stare in silent horror as he pulled the thin, glimmering blade from his coat.
"Yes, dear girl, it's me. Now just lie here quietly, I have a lesson to teach everyone."
***********************************************
November 5th, 1:45 am
Pulling her car into the driveway, Dierdre Whitman fished in her bag for her keyring. She and her roommate, Yolanda, had gone out to celebrate Yolli's birthday, and in the middle of dinner her out-of-town boyfriend had shown up to surprise her. Yolli had begged her to let them have the room to themselves for the night, since he was only able to visit once a month, and she had agreed, and come home to crash.
"Mom should be happy to see me in the morning, she always complains that I don't visit enough.", she mumbled to herself. "Like I live on the other side of the country, instead of five miles away."
She finally located her keys, and walked onto the porch, but froze when the door swung open as soon as her hand touched the knob. Her mom never left the door unlocked, let alone open, and the alarm should have been waking people on the next block, but everything was strangely silent.
"Mom, are you here?" She took a few more steps into the front hall, and nearly jumped out of her shoes when something brushed her leg. An incongruously faint "Mraow" told her that it was just Eric's big goofy cat, and she relaxed slightly, until she flipped the light switch, and nothing happened.
Going back to the car, Deirdre popped open her trunk and grabbed the flashlight her father insisted that she carry, picking up the jack handle as well, and then went back inside. Turning on the flashlight, she maneuvered around the cat and made her way up the stairs, calling out again. "Mom, it's me! Answer me, you're freaking me out!"
Instead of a response, she heard a scraping sound, which she instantly recognized as coming from the French doors in her parent's bedroom. Pressing herself against the wall of the stairwell, she forced herself to be still for what felt like an hour, listening for any other sounds. When she heard only silence, she resumed climbing, and dashed to the bedroom door as soon as she reached the top of the stairs.
Pushing open the door, she called, "Mom, are you okay? Why aren't you answering me? And why are the light ou...?"
Her words ended abruptly as she saw what was revealed by the battery-powered lantern on the nightstand, and the jack handle slipped unnoticed to the floor, as she stood frozen in the doorway. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and she finally choked out, "Mom? Mommy, nooo!"
Turning on her heel, she stumbled back down the stairs, her vision blurred by tears. She half-ran, half-staggered out the front door, off of the porch, and onto the front lawn, sobbing hysterically.
Finally, she gathered enough breath to call out "Help! Somebody please help!" , before burying her face in the grass and weeping inconsolably.