Breaking eye contact, he redirected his gaze at the floor.
Not many visitors stopped by anymore, attractive women least of all. He’d grown accustomed to living alone in his small condo, the outside world closed behind the blinds, discarded. He only ventured into his old life long enough to collect his pension or disability checks from the mailbox. He didn’t even shop for himself anymore.
He glanced to the detective while she jotted down notes on a small pad. Being in the presence of such a smart and engaging woman, he found himself wishing he
Melissa looked at him and said, “You told me you thought Kane preferred a certain type of victim.”
“That’s right,” he said, but paused at the frail sound of his voice. He cleared his throat. “Like I said, for all the trouble Kane went through to get at several of his targets, it seemed logical to say those individuals had something of a specific interest to him, something no one else could provide.”
Frank stopped himself again, deciding how much to reveal. Wracked by the understanding of what his life had become, he could’ve talked with Melissa all night. But he realized he needed to proceed with caution, reminding himself that he couldn’t let his rediscovered wanting for companionship cloud his judgment. Giving the detective too much information at this point would only cause her to regard him with skepticism, maybe even suspicion.
“Did you ever determine what the connection was?” Melissa asked, prodding him out of his thoughts.
“No,” he half-lied. “Once again, there wasn’t enough information. None of the victims shared any characteristics: physical, emotional, habitual, or otherwise.”
The detective said nothing, but her mouth pinched with disappointment.
“Did you ever determine what it was Kane was doing to them?” she asked. “I don’t recall hearing about the ritualistic stuff you described, other than the reconstructed corpses—the amalgamates.”
Frank didn’t respond right away, and when he did, he voiced the thought that had seized him the moment Melissa identified herself at the door. “This isn’t about an ordinary disappearance, is it, Detective? Judge Anderson is dead, isn’t he? He’s dead, and you’ve found something linking him to Kane. What was it? The double-K marking?”
She shook her head in protest. “Why would you think he’s dead?”
“Because I’ve feared this would happen,” he answered. “I’ve dreaded it for years. Recently, I thought I’d convinced myself I was just being paranoid, but when you came to the door I just knew.” Frank’s guilt seethed in him like a great furnace ready to explode. After all this time, his writing had finally served to educate the public of the danger still loose in the world. Now the Killer had taken the life of a man who’d wanted his help, and the weight of responsibility pressed even harder on his shoulders.
He wondered how the detective was interpreting what he’d told her. He’d seen her glance about the room during the breaks in their conversation, no doubt pondering the possibility that
Melissa opened her mouth, maybe to ask that exact question, when five electronic beeps cut her off. She reached to her waist, for a pager clipped to her belt. “I’m afraid I have to go,” she said after checking the message. “I’d like to talk more about this if it’s possible. May I stop by tomorrow sometime?”
Frank nodded and stood up. “All of my reports concerning Kane are on file downtown; the rest is simply an old man’s opinion. Still, I’d be happy to help you any way I can, Detective. Lord knows I wouldn’t mind the company.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
He walked her to the door, unable to look her in the eyes after his last comment. She supplied him with one of her business cards, adding her home phone number to the back of it. He closed the door behind her.
After reengaging the locks, Frank slumped with his back to the entry and rubbed one hand over his face, feeling the scratch of thick stubble.
Although they’d only known one another for less than an hour, he couldn’t help but worry for Melissa. She’d already trod on dangerous ground without even knowing it, and her job would no doubt take her down the path of danger again before an end to the killings came within sight. He cursed himself for not having the courage to tell her the complete truth about Kane, even though he knew she wouldn’t believe him.
Like it or not, he was on his own.
He clenched his right hand into a fist and slammed it against the wall. Pushing away from the front door, he crossed the living room and went to the smaller of the condo’s two bedrooms. Full bookcases lined the walls, skirted by columns of other books stacked on the floor. Towers of boxes containing copies of past case files from around the country blocked the room’s only window. His computer desk sat in the far corner, flanked by a six-foot high filing cabinet and a cherry wood armoire.
Here the walls were lost under a collage of old documents: statement reports and crime scene photos from the original Kane disappearances; pictures from the Stillwater basement and cellar; lab analysis forms; blood work results; pictograph comparisons; maps of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, and the Dakotas.
Stepping over the pair of forty-pound dumbbells he used to keep in shape, Frank opened the upper half of the wardrobe exposing his safe. He dialed the combination and withdrew one of four identical folders, each containing more evidence gathered on Kane and his partner.
After setting the file on his desk, he closed the safe and turned to the room’s closet.
He slid open the double folding doors.
On the closet’s single clothes rack hung several rugged coats, a black S.W.A.T. jumpsuit, a bulletproof vest, and four styles of shoulder holsters, all purchased through military surplus catalogues.
The back wall of the closet had been converted into a storage area for Frank’s collection of weaponry. A gun rack held two Mossberg shotguns—one pistol grip, one with a full stock—an HK 33A2 assault rifle, and an M-16A1. Below the gun rack sat two three-drawer dressers. The first contained fifteen different handguns of assorted caliber and design, along with ammunition for each, whereas the second housed a variety of communication and sensory devices: a directional microphone, night vision goggles, a hand-held GPS unit, several TriField meters, and five different rifle scopes.
Frank shrugged into one of the shoulder holsters and chose a 9mm Glock from the dresser. He also took the pistol grip Mossberg, concealing it in a leather travel bag. Both weapons were already loaded and ready for use.
In the master bedroom, he traded his shorts for a pair of jeans and slipped a tweed jacket over his tee shirt and firearm. He looked a bit overdressed for the evening’s temperature but wouldn’t appear suspicious.
There were a number of phone calls to make, information yet to search out; he also needed to go out to the garage and prep the equipment on his Blazer. After almost three years of preparation and research, he had actual work to do.
More importantly: he had purpose.
Frank grabbed his wallet and keys off the nightstand and started to return to his office when he stopped. His eyes fixed on the darkness outside the bedroom window.
His mouth went dry at the sight. Before he could stop it, his mind superimposed Kane’s leering face over the glass, coming out of the night in the same horrific way he’d lunged through the cellar doorway in the past.
Frank fled from the room, into the hallway. He doubled over, gasping.
He stood there for a moment, allowing the memory to pass and the reality of what he planned to do to sink in. Leaving the house required mental readiness these days, and in his single-minded focus on organizing for the task ahead, he’d forgot the raw fear of it. He’d seen a therapist about his condition several years back, but quit going after the first few sessions. A doctor would never understand his troubles without knowing the whole story— he wasn’t about to risk getting himself admitted to a psychiatric hospital—and the medication he’d been prescribed did nothing but give him headaches and make him horny.
He forced himself to relax his breathing and straightened up.
He’d go. There was no choice now. He needed to act before the killer took more lives and gathered strength.
The therapist believed his fear stemmed from something in the past.
In truth, it came from the expectation of what horrors lay ahead.
And the idea of facing them alone.
