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Page 71
Get. The. Knife.
The blonde stood and threw a kick to Megan’s ribs. She fell forward, confused, dazed. Her cheek felt pavement. Her eyes closed. Her arms were splayed to the sides, as though she’d been dropped from a great height.
Megan had nothing left.
A beam of light passed over her, maybe from a flashlight, maybe from an oncoming car. Whatever it was, it made the blonde hesitate just long enough. With her eyes still closed, Megan’s hand ran along the pavement.
She still knew where the knife was.
The blonde screamed and jumped down to finish Megan off.
But Megan had the knife now. She flipped over onto her back, the handle of the knife against her sternum, the blade up in the air.
The blonde landed on the sharp point.
The blade dug deep into the blonde’s belly. Megan didn’t let it go at that. She pulled up, slicing through the stomach, until the blade stopped at the rib cage. She could feel the sticky warmth on her as something poured out of the wound.
The blonde’s mouth opened in a silent scream. Her eyes widened and then they locked on Megan’s. Something passed between the two women, something deep and profound and base and beyond rational explanation. Megan would think about that look for a very long time. She would replay it in her head and wonder what she saw, but she would never be able to voice it to anyone.
The blonde’s eyes opened a little more and then, with Megan watching, something in the blonde’s eyes dimmed, and Megan knew that she was gone for good.
Megan heard footsteps as she began to collapse back to the pavement. Her head was nearly down when she felt hands grab her, hold her gently, and then cradle her to the ground.
She looked up and saw his fear.
“Megan? Oh my God, Megan?”
She almost smiled at Dave’s beautiful face. She wanted to comfort him, say that she loved him, that she would be fine—even her base instinct, she’d remember later, was to love and comfort this man—but no words would come out.
Her eyes rolled back. Dave disappeared, and there was only darkness.
34
BROOME SHIVERED IN THE COLD.
There were six more cops by the well now. One offered him a blanket. Broome frowned and told him to buzz off.
There were bodies in the well.
Lots of them. One piled on top of the other.
The first one they brought up belonged to Carlton Flynn.
His corpse was the freshest and, ergo, most horrid. It reeked from decay. Small animals—rats and squirrels, maybe—had gnawed on the dead flesh. One of the officers turned away. Broome didn’t.
The ME would try to find a time and cause of death, but despite what you see on television, there was no guarantee he’d find either. What with the outdoor temperatures and the animals feasting on vital organs, there would be tons of room for confusion.
Of course, Broome didn’t need scientific evidence to know the timing. Carlton Flynn, he was certain, had died on Mardi Gras.
For a few moments, when the body was brought up with a pulley and rope, they all just stood there solemnly.
“The rest are little more than skeletons,” Samantha Bajraktari said.
That didn’t surprise Broome. After all these years, after all the twists and turns and new developments and sightings and rumors, it all came down to this. Someone had killed these guys and dumped them down this well. Someone had gotten the men to come to this remote site, murdered them, and then used a handcart to drag them to a well about fifty yards off the beaten path.
There was no doubt anymore. This was the work of a serial killer.
“How many bodies?” Broome asked.
“Hard to say yet. At least ten, maybe twenty.”
The Mardi Gras Men hadn’t run off or taken on new identities or traveled to some remote island. Broome shook his head. He should have known. He’d always believed that JFK was killed by the lone gunman. He’d scoffed at UFOs, at Elvis sightings, at fake moon landings, at pretty much every dumb-ass conspiracy theory. Even as a cop, he always suspected the obvious: the spouse, the boyfriend, the family member, because in nearly all matters, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.
Stewart Green would probably be near the bottom of the pile.
“We have to tell the feds,” Samantha said.
“I know.”
“You want me to handle it?”
“It’s already done.”
He thought about Sarah Green, sitting in that house all these years, not able to move on, not able to mourn, and all this time her husband had probably been dead in the bottom of a well. Broome had gotten too involved. That had clouded his vision. He had wanted to rescue the Greens. He had convinced himself there was a chance to do that; that despite the odds, he would find Stewart Green whole and bring him back.
Dumb.
There were still questions, of course. Why hadn’t Ross Gunther’s body been dumped down the well too? There were a few possibilities, but Broome didn’t love any of them. The bodies in the well also didn’t answer the question about who had killed Harry Sutton and why, but perhaps the timing had indeed been a coincidence. As for Lorraine seeing Stewart Green alive, that was an easy mistake to make. Even she had admitted that she had her doubts. It was probably someone who looked like Stewart. What with the shaved head and goatee and seventeen years of aging, even Broome could hardly say for sure that age progression was based on him.
Unless, of course, Lorraine hadn’t been wrong. Unless Stewart Green hadn’t been the first victim but the perpetrator…
He didn’t think so.
Another skeleton was brought up.
“Detective Broome?”
He turned.
“I’m Special Agent Guy Angiuoni. Thanks for calling us.”
They shook hands. Broome was too old to play territory games. He wanted this crazy son of a bitch caught.
“Any clue who’s down there?”
“My wi”—he almost said wife—“My partner, Erin Anderson, is still making up a list of men who vanished on or around Mardi Gras. We can get you that information so you can match it to the victims in that well.”
“That’d be very helpful.”
The two men watched the pulley and rope head back down.
“I hear you may have a suspect,” Angiuoni said. “A man named Ray Levine.”
“He’s a possibility, I guess, but there’s not much evidence yet. We already have a warrant being served on his place.”
“Great. Maybe you could help coordinate with our people taking over that?”
Broome nodded and turned away. It was time to get out of the woods. There was nothing he could do here right now. It’d be hours, maybe days. In the meantime he’d find out what his people had uncovered, if anything, in Ray Levine’s basement. He thought about Sarah Green and if he should wait until they had firm confirmation that he was in that well, but, no, the media would be all over this. He didn’t want Sarah to hear about it from some pushy reporter.
The blonde stood and threw a kick to Megan’s ribs. She fell forward, confused, dazed. Her cheek felt pavement. Her eyes closed. Her arms were splayed to the sides, as though she’d been dropped from a great height.
Megan had nothing left.
A beam of light passed over her, maybe from a flashlight, maybe from an oncoming car. Whatever it was, it made the blonde hesitate just long enough. With her eyes still closed, Megan’s hand ran along the pavement.
She still knew where the knife was.
The blonde screamed and jumped down to finish Megan off.
But Megan had the knife now. She flipped over onto her back, the handle of the knife against her sternum, the blade up in the air.
The blonde landed on the sharp point.
The blade dug deep into the blonde’s belly. Megan didn’t let it go at that. She pulled up, slicing through the stomach, until the blade stopped at the rib cage. She could feel the sticky warmth on her as something poured out of the wound.
The blonde’s mouth opened in a silent scream. Her eyes widened and then they locked on Megan’s. Something passed between the two women, something deep and profound and base and beyond rational explanation. Megan would think about that look for a very long time. She would replay it in her head and wonder what she saw, but she would never be able to voice it to anyone.
The blonde’s eyes opened a little more and then, with Megan watching, something in the blonde’s eyes dimmed, and Megan knew that she was gone for good.
Megan heard footsteps as she began to collapse back to the pavement. Her head was nearly down when she felt hands grab her, hold her gently, and then cradle her to the ground.
She looked up and saw his fear.
“Megan? Oh my God, Megan?”
She almost smiled at Dave’s beautiful face. She wanted to comfort him, say that she loved him, that she would be fine—even her base instinct, she’d remember later, was to love and comfort this man—but no words would come out.
Her eyes rolled back. Dave disappeared, and there was only darkness.
34
BROOME SHIVERED IN THE COLD.
There were six more cops by the well now. One offered him a blanket. Broome frowned and told him to buzz off.
There were bodies in the well.
Lots of them. One piled on top of the other.
The first one they brought up belonged to Carlton Flynn.
His corpse was the freshest and, ergo, most horrid. It reeked from decay. Small animals—rats and squirrels, maybe—had gnawed on the dead flesh. One of the officers turned away. Broome didn’t.
The ME would try to find a time and cause of death, but despite what you see on television, there was no guarantee he’d find either. What with the outdoor temperatures and the animals feasting on vital organs, there would be tons of room for confusion.
Of course, Broome didn’t need scientific evidence to know the timing. Carlton Flynn, he was certain, had died on Mardi Gras.
For a few moments, when the body was brought up with a pulley and rope, they all just stood there solemnly.
“The rest are little more than skeletons,” Samantha Bajraktari said.
That didn’t surprise Broome. After all these years, after all the twists and turns and new developments and sightings and rumors, it all came down to this. Someone had killed these guys and dumped them down this well. Someone had gotten the men to come to this remote site, murdered them, and then used a handcart to drag them to a well about fifty yards off the beaten path.
There was no doubt anymore. This was the work of a serial killer.
“How many bodies?” Broome asked.
“Hard to say yet. At least ten, maybe twenty.”
The Mardi Gras Men hadn’t run off or taken on new identities or traveled to some remote island. Broome shook his head. He should have known. He’d always believed that JFK was killed by the lone gunman. He’d scoffed at UFOs, at Elvis sightings, at fake moon landings, at pretty much every dumb-ass conspiracy theory. Even as a cop, he always suspected the obvious: the spouse, the boyfriend, the family member, because in nearly all matters, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.
Stewart Green would probably be near the bottom of the pile.
“We have to tell the feds,” Samantha said.
“I know.”
“You want me to handle it?”
“It’s already done.”
He thought about Sarah Green, sitting in that house all these years, not able to move on, not able to mourn, and all this time her husband had probably been dead in the bottom of a well. Broome had gotten too involved. That had clouded his vision. He had wanted to rescue the Greens. He had convinced himself there was a chance to do that; that despite the odds, he would find Stewart Green whole and bring him back.
Dumb.
There were still questions, of course. Why hadn’t Ross Gunther’s body been dumped down the well too? There were a few possibilities, but Broome didn’t love any of them. The bodies in the well also didn’t answer the question about who had killed Harry Sutton and why, but perhaps the timing had indeed been a coincidence. As for Lorraine seeing Stewart Green alive, that was an easy mistake to make. Even she had admitted that she had her doubts. It was probably someone who looked like Stewart. What with the shaved head and goatee and seventeen years of aging, even Broome could hardly say for sure that age progression was based on him.
Unless, of course, Lorraine hadn’t been wrong. Unless Stewart Green hadn’t been the first victim but the perpetrator…
He didn’t think so.
Another skeleton was brought up.
“Detective Broome?”
He turned.
“I’m Special Agent Guy Angiuoni. Thanks for calling us.”
They shook hands. Broome was too old to play territory games. He wanted this crazy son of a bitch caught.
“Any clue who’s down there?”
“My wi”—he almost said wife—“My partner, Erin Anderson, is still making up a list of men who vanished on or around Mardi Gras. We can get you that information so you can match it to the victims in that well.”
“That’d be very helpful.”
The two men watched the pulley and rope head back down.
“I hear you may have a suspect,” Angiuoni said. “A man named Ray Levine.”
“He’s a possibility, I guess, but there’s not much evidence yet. We already have a warrant being served on his place.”
“Great. Maybe you could help coordinate with our people taking over that?”
Broome nodded and turned away. It was time to get out of the woods. There was nothing he could do here right now. It’d be hours, maybe days. In the meantime he’d find out what his people had uncovered, if anything, in Ray Levine’s basement. He thought about Sarah Green and if he should wait until they had firm confirmation that he was in that well, but, no, the media would be all over this. He didn’t want Sarah to hear about it from some pushy reporter.
