The Night Killer

“Yes,” said Diane. “We have a time window. But your father died sometime-at least an hour-after your mother. I want to know why.”

“How do you know?” said Christine.

“I took pictures with my cell phone camera before I went for help,” said Diane. “I didn’t know if the killer might return and disturb the scene before it could be secured.”

“And you didn’t expect that Sheriff Conrad would do a good job. I think his reputation as an investigator is well-known. I see your reasoning,” said Spence.

“How could you tell from photographs?” asked Christine.

Diane opened her mouth and shut it again. How was she going to word this?

“Christine, honey,” said Spence. “You are putting Dr. Fallon in a difficult situation. She doesn’t want to talk about our parents using the terms forensic specialists use with the dead. She’ll write a report and I’ll look at it, so you don’t have to. It will be easier that way.”

Diane nodded. “Sometimes it’s an awfully cold-sounding way to talk about a loved one,” said Diane.

“I know Mom and Dad would still want to help people, and their research will. Dr. Fallon’s not going to take any more samples than necessary. It’ll be all right,” said Spence.

Christine nodded and the two of them signed the papers that Diane handed them.

“You know, you’ll need Joe and Ella Watson to have a second autopsy too,” said Spence.

“Do you think their children would be willing?” said Diane.

“Oh, yeah,” said Spence. “We called them to give our condolences, and they are as anxious as we are to find out what happened. They don’t like Sheriff Conrad, but didn’t think there were any choices. They trust Dr. Linden, but I think I can persuade them.”

“Okay,” said Diane. “That would be very helpful.”

“We’re going to help all we can,” said Spence. “I’m not convinced that Roy Jr.’s accident isn’t a part of this. If it is, then does that mean it’s not a serial killer? I mean, running somebody off the road isn’t the same as. . well, you know. . as what happened to Mom and Dad.”

“No, it’s not,” agreed Diane. “But I don’t know where it fits.”

Spence nodded and stood up. “I’ll see to it right now, about Mom and Dad,” he said, looking at the card Diane had given him containing contact information for Lynn Webber, “before the sheriff tries to send them to a funeral home. It’d be like him to pick out a funeral home, send them there, and pretend he was just helping us.”

Diane left them with mixed feelings. She believed she’d helped Spence by giving him something to do. But Christine didn’t look as if she were comforted at all by Diane’s visit.

It was good to leave the hospital. Diane hated going there. It sometimes seemed as if it were a regular stop for her. Not just visiting either, but to get care for herself.

There was a cloud cover and it was getting dark earlier than normal. She put on her brights when she could on the drive home. She still couldn’t shake the nagging feeling she was being followed.

“This is just silly,” she muttered to herself. “You are really getting to annoy me,” she told herself.

Still she watched the lights behind her. Everything seemed normal. By the time she turned onto the scenic stretch of highway nearing Frank’s house, people had turned off to go elsewhere and all the headlights behind her had disappeared. She realized that she had let her speed creep up. She relaxed, slowed down, and reached to turn on the radio. With a terrifying crash and a violent jerk sideways, something rammed her from behind.

Chapter 29

Diane’s head popped back against the headrest; then she was thrown forward against her shoulder strap, knocking the breath out of her, then jerked back against her seat again.

What. . the hell? She struggled to recover her breath as a second jolt bounced her vehicle. She gripped the wheel hard, her muscles tensed, and struggled to keep her SUV on the road.

She looked in her rearview mirror. All she could see were bright lights. It was something big. A truck.

Where the hell did that come from?

And instantly she realized that someone had been following her with their lights off.

The unknown assailant hit her again, ramming her against the seat. He locked onto her bumper, jerked his vehicle left, then right, trying to push her off the road or make her run into the ditch. Diane steered in the direction she was pushed for a second, then sped up and freed herself. She wasn’t far from home. She pressed the accelerator until she was going faster than she felt safe. If he hit her again, she was worried she would flip. She forced herself to release the pressure on the accelerator.

The driver came up again, hitting her, pushing her. Abruptly her attacker backed off, then sped past her, scraping the side of her vehicle, and flew down the road, out of sight.

“Oh, God,” she whispered under her breath, sick with relief. Acid rose and stung her throat. She was tempted to pull off onto the shoulder and compose herself. She was also tempted to chase him down. She increased her speed again, hoping Frank was at home. She didn’t want to arrive to an empty house. She needed company. His company.

Diane was getting close to her turnoff when she saw headlights up ahead. . on her side of the road. They were coming fast. She moved toward the other lane. The headlights did the same. She moved back to her own lane. The headlights followed her movements.

They were coming faster. She had only microseconds to think, to work out a plan. There was little time to act. If she swerved at the last minute, the driver might swerve in the same direction-they would still hit head-on. She slowed to decrease the force of the impact. He stayed in her lane, coming fast. The headlights grew larger and brighter. She held the steering wheel so tight her hands were growing numb. Relax, she told herself. She tried, but the lump in her chest and the fear in her stomach were too great. He stayed in her lane. He was going to hit her. She hoped her air bag worked. She hoped he wasn’t suicidal. She hoped he didn’t have an air bag.

Diane was almost stopped. She mentally braced herself for the crash and tried to relax. The headlights seemed close enough to touch. The driver swerved at the last moment and flashed past her.

Diane stepped on the accelerator and sped for home, hoping she would make it before he caught up with her again.

There it was-Frank’s driveway just ahead. She made the turn a little too fast and drove the eighth of a mile to the house. His car was in the garage. Another car was parked in the driveway behind his. She pulled in beside Frank’s car and closed the garage door with the remote.

She usually parked outside the garage and entered by the front door, but she needed to secure her vehicle. She wanted to collect paint transfer. But right now, she wanted more than anything to get inside the house.

From the garage she walked into the mudroom, pulling the door closed behind her a little too hard, and locked it. From there she walked through to the kitchen, then into the living room, where Frank was entertaining Ben Florian. They rose when she entered.

“Diane?” Frank’s voice was like cool water, or music, or chocolate-comfort. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She must look a fright. That was what she was-affright-sick with it.

“You’re pale,” he said. “Are you ill?”

“I’m fine,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t come out as a squeak, hoping they couldn’t see how she trembled.

“Hello, Ben. It’s good to see you.” She held out a hand and shook his. She saw the concern in both their eyes. She smiled weakly and told them she’d be right back as soon as she changed.

She hurried to the bedroom and into the bathroom and threw up. When she finished heaving, she rinsed her mouth out, brushed her teeth, and changed into comfortable jeans and a tee. She ran a brush through her hair and stared into the mirror at herself. She looked pale and frightened. Where had her bravery gone? She had hung precariously on rock faces literally by her fingernails with less fear than she had been having lately.

She went back out to explain herself to Frank and Ben. Frank met her with a glass of wine.