Wednesday, Oct. 18
Quinn stared at the headline for almost five minutes.
“Woman murdered in Leesburg,” it said.
It was simple enough, but it didn’t begin to tell the story. In fact, it looked too much like last week’s headline for his comfort.
But it wasn’t like last week, at least not to him. They had found Fanton’s body on Monday. As Kate had predicted, it was hard to miss. Fanton’s body was dumped sometime late Sunday night outside the courthouse. It had not been noticed until early the next morning. Though the police tried to play it down, the news traveled fast.
By Tuesday, there was a press conference. Few details. Unexplained murder. Brown denied a persistent rumor that Fanton’s head had been mailed to police headquarters. He suggested people were trying to panic the populace. Brown squashed any implication that it could have been the same murderer as a week before. He denied rumors of notes found on both bodies.
For now, at least, it appeared many people believed him. No businesses shut down. The Washington Pos t put the story on the front of their Metro section, but even they didn’t bump it to A1 status. On the surface, things seemed normal enough.
But Quinn sensed it all around him. By this morning, people were at least openly talking about the possibility that their long-lost murderer had come home. It had started. A few more bodies and panic would be close at hand.
He put his head on his desk. The bottom of their story made mention of a serial killer 12 years ago, but it didn’t attempt to draw any conclusions. There was no need.
“He won’t like the fact that he isn’t mentioned,” a voice said behind Quinn.
Quinn practically jumped in his chair. He turned around to see Buzz watching him.
“I didn’t see you come in, Buzz,” Quinn said.
“I like to make a stealthy entrance,” Buzz replied. “I don’t like people to know I’m around.”
“Is that where you are at staff meetings-lurking in the corners?” Quinn said.
“Sometimes,” Buzz said.
“Anyway, what are you talking about? Who wasn’t mentioned?”
“The story,” Buzz replied. “You refer to Lord Halloween’s murders, but you don’t mention his name. He won’t like it.”
“Well, I guess he can always write a letter to the editor,” Quinn said, hoping for a laugh. “’To the editor: I may be a psychotic madman, but I would appreciate your using my full name.’”
Buzz didn’t laugh.
“You think this is funny?” he said. “It’s not. He has ways of making his wishes known and though they involve notes, they aren’t exactly publishable.”
“I’m just kidding around.”
“He isn’t a joke,” Buzz said.
“Look, even if the guy wanted his name printed, that’s a reason not to do it,” Quinn said. “We don’t pander to madmen.”
Buzz waved his hand in disgust.
“Spare me the good journalism speech,” Buzz said. “If you don’t print his name, you wind up dead. You aren’t much good to anyone then.”
“Why are you so obsessed with him anyway?” Quinn asked.
“Who wouldn’t be?” Buzz asked. He looked around him. “He is ruthless, inventive, creative and intelligent. If you don’t study up on him, he might catch you napping.”
“I’ve done my research,” Quinn said.
“Have you really?” Buzz asked. “Then I’m surprised you didn’t mention his name.”
“It wasn’t me, it was Kyle,” Quinn said. “He wrote most of it. I even suggested putting the nickname in there, but he thought it was too ‘provocative.’ This from a guy who thinks wrestling is high art.”
“Yes, well, as I said, he has ways of making his point known,” Buzz said.
“I know, like mailing a head to Sheriff Brown,” Quinn said. “I’ll be careful.”
“You’ll be dead,” Buzz said.
Buzz started to walk away before Quinn remembered. He burst out laughing and Buzz looked confused and then angry.
“No, Buzz,” Quinn said. “It’s a line from Star Wars, remember? Luke says, ‘I’ll be careful’ to some dude in the bar and then the guy says, ‘You’ll be dead.’”
“It’s not funny, Quinn,” Buzz said. “It isn’t like he hasn’t targeted reporters before-ones just as talented as you.”
“Hold up a second,” Quinn said. “What reporter did he target?”
But Buzz was starting to walk away in disgust. When Quinn caught up with him, he wheeled around.
“Everyone likes to make fun of me,” Buzz said. “You say I’m paranoid. And I am. But did you ever think I have reason to be? Tim was just a young reporter when he started here, but he was amazingly talented. I was a little envious, actually.”
“Tim?”
“Anderson,” Buzz said. “He came in just like you. Left college, wanted to write. Worked on the sports desk for two years and started doing general assignments. About a year before Lord Halloween showed up, Laurence moved him to the crime beat. And he was great at it.”
Quinn wasn’t laughing anymore.
“What happened?”
Buzz paused. He had a far away look on his face as if he wasn’t just remembering being back in 1994, but he was actually there.
“He started getting letters,” Buzz said. “I’m not sure when. It could have even been before the first murder.”
“What did they say?”
“I don’t know,” Buzz said. “Nobody here knows but Laurence and Ethan. Tim only ever shared them with those two.”
“But they were from Lord Halloween?”
“Oh yes,” Buzz said. “Most definitely.”
“Do you know anything about what they contained?”
Buzz shook his head.
“Don’t you think I wanted to know?” he asked. “I tried everything I could to get a copy, or see if Tim would talk. But the letters were promptly handed over to police. Ethan said we could never publish them.”
Quinn got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Lord Halloween didn’t approve?”
“No, he didn’t,” Buzz said. “I know that…”
His voice trailed off. He was staring into space.
“You know that what?”
“Tim begged to publish those letters, Quinn,” Buzz said. “I don’t mean he asked, I mean he literally begged. Laurence and he had giant fights about it, but…”
“Laurence just did what Ethan wanted.”
“Same as it ever was,” Buzz said, and nodded.
“What happened to Tim?”
“I really don’t know,” Buzz said. “One day he just didn’t show up for work. You won’t find him on any official list of Lord Halloween’s victims. But I know he’s dead.”
“Why? Maybe he just freaked and ran away?”
“You couldn’t keep a guy like him away from writing,” Buzz said. “He was born to do it, just as you were. He had a great beat and was a star reporter. He wouldn’t have left.”
“Sometimes people do funny things when their life is on the line,” Quinn said.
“He angered Lord Halloween,” Buzz said. “Then he disappeared. You tell me what is more likely. That is one killer with a lot of follow through.”
Quinn thought of the blood in the basement, the reports of a ghost in the building. Maybe Lord Halloween killed Anderson here and hid the body? He shivered at the thought of someone lying down in the press room, screaming for help. But if the press was running, there would have been no one to hear. He could have died surrounded by people that might have helped him, but just couldn’t hear him.
“I need those letters,” Quinn said. “If Lord Halloween is back, I need to know more about him.”
Buzz looked at him.
“The police have all of them,” he said. “Technically.”
“What do you mean, technically?”
Buzz looked around the office. There was still no one around. He leaned into Quinn’s face.
“I think Laurence kept copies,” Buzz said. “I don’t know for sure, but I saw him copy one of them late at night. Ethan would not have approved. But he doesn’t keep them in his office.”
“How do you know?” Quinn asked.
Buzz smiled and shrugged.
“You broke in, didn’t you?” Quinn asked.
Buzz shrugged again.
“Still, if he copied one…”
“There’s a good bet he copied others,” Buzz said. “Stay on your toes, Quinn. If Lord Halloween writes you a letter, I would make your own copy first. And I’d print it.”
“If they let me,” he said.
With that, Buzz walked off again. Quinn went back to his desk and sat down.
He put his head in his hands. When he looked up, Kate was staring at him. She looked pale, almost sick. He wasn’t sure when she arrived. He got up and walked over to her.
“What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t sleep well,” she replied. “I feel like I haven’t slept in days.”
“I know the feeling,” Quinn said. “When I do sleep, all I have are nightmares.”
“Believe me, I understand,” she said. “What was that little pow-wow about?”
Quinn filled her in on the brief and tragic career of Tim Anderson.
“So he’s the blood in the basement?” she asked.
“It’s a good guess, but it isn’t conclusive,” Quinn replied.
“We need those letters,” she said.
“But how are we going to get them?” Quinn asked. “I doubt Laurence will admit he has them-if he even still does.”
“We can find a way,” Kate said, and Quinn did not like the look on her face. Not one bit.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” he said. “If it is Lord Halloween, he’ll make another move soon. He’ll want more attention then he got here. And it’s less than two weeks to Halloween.”
Rebecca stood at the door of the conference room and called everyone into the staff meeting. Both Kate and Quinn went inside.
That afternoon, Kate, Janus and Quinn sat in the coffee shop down the street.
“You want to do what?” Quinn asked. “Are you insane?”
“Well, can you think of a better way?” Kate asked.
“Than breaking into Laurence’s house?” Quinn responded. “We could just ask him, you know.”
“And he’ll deny they exist,” she responded. “You’ve got exactly one person who saw him making a copy-and that’s Buzz. Is he the most credible source?”
“How do we know they are even at his house?” Quinn asked.
“Cause they aren’t in his office,” Kate responded.
“How could you possibly…”
Quinn’s voice dropped off. He looked at the two of them. He had wondered why Kate had insisted on bringing Janus along. And now he knew. Only Janus would have been crazy enough to go along with this plan.
“You broke into his office, didn’t you?” Quinn asked, looking at Janus.
“Broke in is such a strong term,” Janus said with a smile. “I prefer active investigatory intrusion.”
“Are you two nuts?” Quinn said. “He is your boss. Your boss. If he had caught you, you both would have been fired. ”
“I had a cover story,” Janus said.
“Which was what?”
There was a long pause.
“I needed a stapler,” Janus said.
Quinn put his head on the table and softly but repeatedly banged it against the ceramic stone. It felt strangely soothing. My job will be the first thing to go, he thought. He looked up and they were both staring at him. Janus at least had some vaguely apologetic look on his face, as if he were aware that some line had been crossed. Kate, on the other hand, just looked determined.
“And is that going to be your cover story when we break into his actual house?” Quinn said. “When the police show up, we’re going to tell them that the three of us really needed staplers?”
“No, I was going to go with we all were tweaked out on ecstasy and thought we were throwing a party there.”
Quinn returned to banging his head on the table.
“It’s the only way,” Kate said.
“The only way?” Quinn asked, and laughed. “Again, we could ask him. I’m just throwing out a crazy idea that instead of breaking into a house-a home I might add that we don’t even know has the letters, much less where to find them-we could just confront him and demand he give over the letters.”
“And when he says no?” Kate asked.
“Have you met Laurence?” Quinn said. “He doesn’t say no. Traveling salespeople probably come from miles around because he is physically incapable of saying no. If he were drowning, he wouldn’t say no to more water.”
“I don’t think so,” Kate said.
“I’ve known him for years,” Quinn said. “You’ve known him for like 20 minutes. Come on.”
“She’s right,” Janus said.
Quinn pointed his finger at Janus.
“You just want an excuse to break in somewhere,” he said. “You’ve been wanting to do that for ages. Remember that Cascades bar?”
Janus just shrugged.
“She’s right and you know it,” he said. “Laurence can’t say no, but he can pretend the letters don’t exist. And that’s what he’ll do.”
“We are taking way too much on faith here,” Quinn responded. “That he really did copy the letters, that he has kept them all these years, and that they are sitting at his house.”
“We have to start somewhere, Quinn, or are we just going to be wait for Lord Halloween to find us?” Kate said.
“What if they tell us nothing? They didn’t tell the police much, did they?”
Still, within two hours, Quinn found himself along with Kate and Janus outside of Laurence’s house. He had a modest enough place just outside Leesburg. Quinn didn’t know for sure, but he thought Laurence must have moved recently. The house looked relatively new and had that cookie-cutter look that most of the developers were going for.
The nice thing about the outskirts of Leesburg was that they had so much surrounding woodland still left. The three journalists positioned themselves in Laurence’s back yard and scoped out the house.
“It’s all dark,” Quinn said.
He thanked God it was October and the sun was starting to go down so early. Somewhere he could hear a dog bark and he hoped it wasn’t making noise because of them-or that Laurence owned it. At least now they could lurk around without anyone seeing them. Quinn couldn’t see why Lord Halloween enjoyed that aspect of his work. Instead of feeling invisible, he was worried any minute he might be seen or, knowing Virginia residents, shot at.
“So who’s going in?” he asked.
He shouldn’t have bothered. Once they confirmed that Laurence wasn’t home yet, Janus was already moving to approach the house.
“Does he even know where he’s going?” Quinn asked.
Kate shrugged.
They watched Janus approach the backdoor. It was a nice double door opening out to a patio. Janus tripped a motion-detecting floodlight, but clearly didn’t seem worried about it. He stood there, standing out.
“This isn’t going to work,” Quinn said.
“Could you please try and be a little positive?”
“Well, I didn’t bring up the part where we all get fired and go to jail. I thought that was pretty positive.”
Janus had pulled something out of his pocket-Quinn at first thought it was going to be his lighter, the one he carried with him everywhere. Instead it appeared to be a tool of some kind. He was using it on the door. Within seconds, the door came open.
Quinn braced himself. If there was an alarm, this would be when it was triggered. After the attacks by Lord Halloween, most Loudoun residents had bought an alarm. But he heard nothing. Instead Janus gestured back at them.
Seconds later, Quinn and Kate were through the door. The house looked nice considering he knew how little Ethan Holden paid anyone. It was possible Laurence was paid more money than most, but he doubted it. Laurence wasn’t a tough negotiator and it was hard to imagine Holden ever willingly parting with cash when he didn’t absolutely have to.
“Let’s spread out,” Kate said. “The shorter time we’re here, the better chances we have.”
“Nothing ever went wrong with that plan,” Quinn said, but Janus and Kate had already split up.
Quinn decided to stick to the back. He walked through the dining room, which looked totally bare except for a table, and then briefly stopped in the kitchen. He doubted Laurence would have any files in there. As he turned the corner, he saw a door to the basement. He felt like he was in a bad horror movie. Don’t go in the basement, he told himself. But didn’t that seem like a better place to hide files?
Slowly, he walked down the steps, taking care not to trip in the dark. When he got to the bottom, he fumbled along the wall until he found a light switch and turned it on. He hated turning on the light-what if Laurence came home-but had no choice. Without it, he was effectively blind.
The basement wasn’t as dank or scary as Quinn had feared. It was largely bare, however, with a big TV and a stationary bicycle on the far side of the wall. It didn’t look like either had been used recently. But feeling the urge to be thorough, he walked to the back of the room and found another area off to the right.
The room was an almost identical replica of Laurence’s office at the Chronicle. Two desks were pushed together and an older-looking computer sat at the direct center of one of them. He flicked on another light to get a better look. Bingo! Two filing cabinets sat by the far end of the room-just like at the office. He was just about to shout upstairs to the others when he heard something that made his blood stand still.
The front door had opened.
He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He was a journalist-trained for stressful situations-but Quinn could see getting fired, possible jail time and the end of everything he had tried to build here. What paper would hire him now? He would be a part-time criminal. Maybe he could convince Laurence not to press charges. He could just walk upstairs and admit it.
He heard footsteps as someone walked in the house. From the sound of it, it was probably two people. He heard voices, even giggling. Quinn had to do something.
The files, a voice in his head said. Get the goddamn files. If he was going to go down, he shouldn’t be standing around waiting for something to happen-he should act.
His eyes darted to the filing cabinets. Please don’t be locked, he thought, as he heard more talking upstairs. How long until Kate gets caught? What about Janus?
Focus, he thought. Focus on what you are here to do.
He examined the filing cabinets and tried to pull them out. But as he feared, they were locked.
“Shit,” he said under his breath. “Motherfucking piece of shit.”
He looked around the room. Keys, keys, there have to be keys somewhere. The desk was bare. Near the computer was a series of newspaper clippings, laid out in an unusually neat pattern. He opened the drawers and started looking through. How long before they notice the light is on downstairs? How long do I have? There were pins, pens, notepads, paper clips, staples, a letter opener, highlighters and every kind of other junk in the first drawer. The second drawer was filled with random stuff as well, as far as Quinn could tell. There were papers in there, but nothing else.
There’s no key here, Quinn thought. He should run now. Just get out of there while he could. But this would be his last chance. He wasn’t going to get another shot at this. And if Laurence caught even a glimpse of him, he would know it was Quinn.
He could hear the voices talking upstairs, moving around a little. It sounded like they were in the kitchen-he could hear glasses clinking.
“Shit,” he said again.
His eyes searched the room. He returned to the filing cabinet and gave it a good look. It looked like solid oak, but the lock was very small. Maybe it wasn’t that stable. He could see the piece of metal through the opening slat holding the drawer shut. If he had something flat, small and hard, he could maybe move it without a key. His brain was working on overdrive.
The voices had stopped talking and he could not hear anything upstairs. He didn’t know where Laurence and his friend were, but they could be anywhere.
The letter opener, Quinn thought. He moved back to the desk, pulled open the drawer and grabbed it. Please let this work. He slid the letter opener into the slat and tried to push the latch. At first there was nothing and Quinn thought it was over, but then it gave way slightly. He pushed a little harder. It was resisting him, but also moving.
Above him, he could hear people moving and voices again. It didn’t sound like anyone had been caught-maybe Kate and Janus had gotten out already. But the footsteps sounded like they were coming towards Quinn. He could almost make out what the people were saying.
The lock gave way. One minute it was resisting slightly and the next it had slid all the way into the drawer. He’d done it. He pulled open the drawer and looked at a series of files. At first he couldn’t make out what he was looking at. On each file was written a name-and there were at least two dozen files. They meant nothing to him until he saw one near the front: “Mary Kilgore.” The murdered woman.
He pulled it out. In it was his newspaper article on the murder and even the metro article from the Post. A headshot also fell out. Until that moment, Quinn hadn’t known what she looked like. She looked in her early fifties. Her hair was dark, but Quinn had a feeling it was colored. She had been pretty once, but in the photo she just looked tired. Her smile looked forced, as if she didn’t have any reason to be smiling. Quinn put the photo back in the file and returned it to the drawer.
He looked at the other names until one jumped out at him: Sarah Blakely. It was Kate’s mom. He looked more carefully at the names now and could see he recognized many of them: they were all victims of Lord Halloween. Laurence had an entire drawer filled with information. Had he also done his own investigation?
He didn’t have time to think about it. The footsteps now sounded like they were at the top of the basement stairs. He heard a voice as clear as day.
“Just one second,” Laurence said.
He started walking down the basement steps.
“I didn’t think I left the light on down here,” Laurence said to himself.
Quinn was finished. In five seconds Laurence would be down the steps and it would be over. Instead of his life flashing before his eyes, Quinn saw his career flash before him. Starting as a cub reporter working sports, trying to learn the ropes, then finally working his way up to general assignment. It was over. It was all over.
At that moment, the doorbell rang. Laurence paused on the steps, turned around, and walked back up them. Quinn nearly shouted in relief. His heart was racing. Whatever chance he had just been given, he took it. He looked back at the files and frantically searched through the names until he found the one he wanted: Tim Anderson.
He grabbed the file. It was clearly one of the biggest. Quinn didn’t read it. If the letters weren’t here, they weren’t anywhere, and now was not the time to check. As an afterthought, he grabbed the file on Blakely as well-and shut the filing cabinet as gently as he could.
Hoisting the files under his one arm, he began to creep up the stairs. Whoever had rung the doorbell, he just hoped they would keep Laurence busy. At the top of the stairs he stood and listened.
“I just thought it was worth bringing to your attention,” a voice said. With shock, Quinn realized it belonged to Janus. He had been the one to ring the doorbell. He must have snuck out of the house and gone back around to the front.
“You really think he’s harassing her?” Laurence asked.
“Well, I don’t know that it’s risen to that level yet,” Janus said. “But between you and me, he hasn’t had a good date in a long time and the way he looks at her-well, frankly, it makes me uncomfortable. I can only imagine how I would feel if I were a new reporter.”
What the hell was Janus even talking about? Quinn knew he was just creating a diversion, but the conversation sounded…
“I’m worried about Quinn,” Janus continued. “I really am. He’s been acting all paranoid lately, and he had that run-in with the police. You should have heard him. He was downright disrespectful to the police-Kate and I were shocked.”’
Oh, fuck, Quinn thought. He wanted to go out there and set the record straight and realized with a start that he had broken into this house. It was now or never to get away.
He walked toward the kitchen and heard someone open the refrigerator. Laurence wasn’t alone, he should have remembered. Whoever it was wasn’t rushing out to meet Janus, though. Quinn couldn’t go that way.
Instead, he went the other direction. He was near Laurence’s living room. He crossed quickly in the dark through the dining room. He hoped whoever was in the kitchen didn’t move.
“I just really wanted you to know about it,” Janus said.
“Well, thanks Janus,” Laurence said. “I’m very glad you brought these concerns to me. Rebecca and I will talk to Quinn first thing in the morning.”
Quinn was about out of time. He moved carefully but quickly through the dining room and to the back door. From there he could see into the kitchen and was surprised to see Rebecca standing in it. She was clearly listening to Laurence’s conversation, but did not appear eager to give herself away. If she looked away now, she would see Quinn.
He quietly opened the door and backed out of the house. The floodlight was still on, but Rebecca was looking the other direction, toward the front door. Quinn backed across the lawn. He had to be sure he wasn’t seen. As soon as he was out of the light, he turned and ran across the back yard, grasping the files in his hand to keep them from falling out.
When he got to the rendezvous point, he stopped.
“You made it,” Kate said, and Quinn nearly screamed. He hadn’t seen her in the dark. “Janus and I knew you were still in there: he hoped to create a diversion.”
“Well, he did that, although I think he was saying I was stalking you.”
“What?” Kate asked, but her eyes were on the folders under Quinn’s arm.
“Did you find something?” she asked.
Quinn nodded. “He has files on every victim of Lord Halloween, Kate.”
He handed the files over to her.
“That’s Tim Anderson’s,” he said.
The next thing he knew Kate had kissed him again. It was brief-all too brief-but it felt great. She let him go.
“Fantastic,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“What about Janus?”
“What about me?” Janus said, appearing from nowhere. Both Kate and Quinn jumped.
“What the hell were you doing back there?” Quinn asked.
“Saving your ass,” he said. “Now let’s get gone before we have another little incident.”
Kate and Quinn sat in Quinn’s apartment, each of them drinking a Coke. It was late, they should be sleeping, but instead they were sitting with a raft of paper. The file on Anderson had been thick. In it were stuffed Anderson’s articles from the murders: a profile of a kid that was murdered, reports on the police investigation, and a big blow up piece that read, “Who is Lord Halloween?” Below the headline was the deck: “And why can’t the police stop him?”
Quinn glanced through the article. “The police investigation appears crude, inept and ineffective-and the killer undoubtedly knows it,” one article read. “While police routinely try to contain information about a case in order to confront a suspect with evidence unknown to the public, they have also attempted to bury information that could be vital to the citizens of Loudoun County. The police concluded there was likely a serial killer in the area three days before the death of Trudy Pharaoh on Oct. 16, yet refused to acknowledge as much until after her death and those of two other people. Critics charge the police have put the public at risk and are no closer to identifying a suspect in the case.”
No wonder the cops hate us, Quinn thought. Not that what Anderson wrote was untrue, but still, it was harsh. If the police had told everyone there was a serial killer in town, how long before panic set in? As it was, when people had figured it out, the reaction had been over the top. A curfew and a ban on Halloween and related activities had been just the beginning. Then again, weren’t the police making the same mistake now, denying that the deaths of Fanton and Kilgore were related?
“Fascinating,” Kate said. “Lord Halloween really had a yen for Anderson. Look at these.”
She produced a stack of paper and handed them to Quinn. He started reading from the top of the stack: “Some of what I tell you will be lies. I don’t mean to get us off on the wrong foot, but I thought I should make that clear from the outset.”
“He wrote about ten letters, it looks like,” she said. “Though not all of them appear to be here. We are at least missing letters four and six.”
“What do they say?”
“You should read them, but they are quite the ego trip. It turns out Lord Halloween was apparently an anti-development pioneer-way ahead of his time. It’s all about stopping change, and yadda, yadda, yadda.”
“Maybe he’s part of the anti-development team now?” Quinn asked. “One of the people trying to preserve Phillips Farm, for example.”
“I don’t think so,” Kate said.
“Why not?”
“I think it’s all a show,” she said. “I think he was trying to give a motivation to Anderson that would be somewhat sympathetic-however crazy-to people who read his stories. He’s like an eco-terrorist on steroids. But I don’t think he meant a word of it.”
“He might have meant some of it,” Quinn said.
“Everything about these letters is over the top,” Kate said. “Just like the man himself, I assume. I think ‘Lord Halloween’ itself is a put-on, a sham, something designed to scare the kiddies. The man behind it probably thinks it’s all in fun.”
“Then what’s the point of the letters?”
“To establish a mythos,” she said. “To create buzz around him. He’s not just a killer. He’s a serial killer bent on destruction and chaos. But my point is, he feels about as real as a comic-book villain. Yes, he kills people, but the whole, ‘she screamed delightfully’ while she died.”
“The editor in me noted that you can’t really scream delightfully,” Quinn said.
“Exactly,” Kate said. “It’s a put-on. He’s trying to make himself bigger than he is, some kind of arch-fiend. He’s not. He’s just a guy who gets off on killing people. That’s it.”
“But he also seems to want a certain kind of press,” Quinn said, flipping through the letters.
“Yeah, that’s the other point of the letters, I think,” Kate said. “It’s about control. He’s trying to get around the police muzzle about his existence and using a reporter to do it. When the reporter doesn’t do it…”
“He kills him,” Quinn said.
“Very likely,” Kate said. “Though that last letter has thrown me a bit. Maybe it was meant to throw other people, I’m not sure. But one letter seems to imply he killed Anderson’s girlfriend. That’s a place we ought to start looking. Who was she? Did she work for the Chronicle? It’s too bad you couldn’t steal more files.”
“I’ve had another disturbing thought,” Quinn said. “Why does Laurence have all those files anyway? If it were Buzz, I wouldn’t think twice…”
“I wonder if it’s him,” Kate said.
“Him?”
“Maybe Laurence is Lord Halloween,” she said. “This is his way of tracking his victims, enjoying the thrill.”
Quinn laughed out loud.
“You aren’t serious?” he said. “Have you met Laurence? There’s no way. He can’t even stand up to Rebecca.”
“So maybe he acts out in other ways, Quinn,” she said. “You don’t really know people: not ever. Maybe he’s just a nice guy on the surface and underneath…”
“No way,” Quinn said. “I just don’t see it.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said.
She looked at her watch. It was past three in the morning.
“I should get back to the hotel,” she said.
“You can stay here,” Quinn said.
They looked at each other. For a brief moment, Kate saw the Tarot card lying on Madame Zora’s table: a man and a woman with the Devil standing between them. But she was far too tired to be thinking that way.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Quinn rushed to clarify. It was good that Janus had already gone home. He would have mocked Quinn-in front of Kate, no doubt.
She was also too tired to argue. She nodded. He rushed off to get towels and generally get his room in order. Within fifteen minutes, they were both asleep.
LH File: Letter #8
Date Oct. 23, 1994
Investigation Status: Closed
Contents: Classified
Dear Tim,
I think it’s about time we used each other’s Christian names, don’t you? That last article-that was what I wanted all along. Was that so hard? The police are inept, no one can find me, and I’m killing with impunity. If that doesn’t frighten the huddled masses, I don’t know what will.
I confess I thought our partnership was a failure, but here we are, finally working together. I’m sure the police are thrilled. Maybe you don’t want to hand this letter over? Just a suggestion, but how long do you think it is before they begin to suspect you? Think about it: Maybe you’re just a reporter who wants attention. Maybe you’re writing these letters to yourself. You could even have multiple personalities and not know it. Sure, it’s crazy, but the police are desperate, Tim. How long before they go looking for a scapegoat? Hey, it can even be the same reporter that called them names. Think of how excited they would be.
Is your blood pumping yet, Tim? I could help them, you know. I know where you live, I know where you eat, I know everything about you. I’ve even been in your room while you slept. Bet you didn’t know that, did you? I came to kill you, but thought better of it. You’re good at what you do. I’m good at what I do. There should be room in the world for two people of talent, don’t you think?
But our time is fading. By Oct. 31, my time here will be up-at least for this year-and you… You could be in jail. Or dead. Or just mentally unhinged. Part of this is up to you. Your next article should hit the police even harder. They have suspects, I will tell you that. My favorite is Charles Holober, a paranoid schizophrenic that lives in Ashburn. The guy keeps dead fish in his drawer, Tim. He’s married, but there are all kinds of domestic trouble. He even cut her.
Or there is always Mike Taylor down in Sterling. He’s been arrested for armed burglary twice in the past 10 years, so he knows how to get into houses. He could be their man.
This county is filled with sickos and psychos, fools and fall guys. They’ll find someone that fits their bill. It won’t be me, but I can pretend, Tim. I know a lot about pretending.
And so do you, it seems. I’ve seen your brave face to the public. I also know how you begged your bosses to help you. But you are starting to feel it, aren’t you? The burn, the weariness, the feeling that it will all be for nothing. She’s dead and you can’t bring her back. This story is making your career, but the price you are paying is your soul. Do what I want and you are nothing but a hack. Refuse me and you are nothing but a corpse.
So let’s go out with a bang, shall we? Hit the police even harder, Tim. Pull no punches. Waste no ink. Let’s see what you really are.
Yours Sincerely,
Lord Halloween