Saturday, Oct. 21
Bluemont was bigger than Quinn expected. He had thought he would find a small, dusty town. Instead, it was a medium sized town in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The town’s business had clearly once been coal mining, which explained why it had grown so much. Now it looked like it also catered to hikers of the Appalachian Trail and other tourists.
Kate and Quinn pulled into the biggest hotel and made a reservation. From there, they went to find the Bluemont Gazette. Unsurprisingly, the building was closed because it was a Saturday. It was a small office. Quinn doubted more than five people worked there.
They hit the streets. They stopped into a bakery, whose owners said they didn’t know anyone at the paper and had never heard of Thomas Fillmore. They dropped by a hardware store where the owner said the same thing. By the time they hit the grocery store, they knew something was up.
“Never heard of him,” the lady at the customer service desk said. “I know most everyone in town, so maybe you are in the wrong place.”
“You know anyone at the Bluemont Gazette?”
“That old rag?” she said. “I’m surprised it hasn’t shut down.”
Quinn and Kate looked at each other. The woman’s face was beet red, she wasn’t looking them in the eye and she seemed extremely nervous.
Quinn leaned in conspiratorially.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked the woman. He glanced at her badge. “Ms. Hawkins?”
“Well sure, honey, but everyone calls me Midge,” the woman said.
“I don’t want anyone else to find out about this,” said Quinn. “But Katrina here… well… she has a very special reason for finding Mr. Fillmore.”
“I told you I don’t know any…”
“I heard you, but I thought if you knew why we needed to find him, you might be a little more sympathetic to our plight,” he said. “Maybe it would jumpstart your memory.”
Quinn hurried on before she could interrupt.
“Katrina here used to live in Loudoun County, over in Virginia,” he said, and Midge nodded as if she understood. “Well, her parents went through a nasty divorce when she was just a little kid and she never really knew what broke them up. Her mom, God rest her soul, was recently diagnosed with cancer and told her the truth: Katrina’s birth was the result of an affair. Now she wouldn’t tell her who, but she found these old letters up in the attic and eventually found out that Thomas Fillmore was her father. Apparently, he left Loudoun about 12 years ago. Katrina is desperate to find him before her mother dies. He was the one true love of her life.”
Kate was looking at Quinn with an expression that mixed awe with disapproval. She was impressed how easily he could lie, but a little disturbed by it as well.
“Please, Ms. Hawkins,” Quinn paused awkwardly. “Midge, we need your help. I know Mr. Fillmore is a private man.”
Midge Hawkins looked around the store to see if anyone else could overhear them. She leaned in closer.
“You don’t know the half of it,” she said. “He is the most paranoid man I ever met. He practically keeps tabs on any stranger that comes into town.”
“So you know him?” Quinn said. “Fantastic, Ms. Hawkins. Could you help us, please?”
Quinn took Kate’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
“It would mean so much to us,” he said. “We were fixing to get married soon and…”
Kate squeezed his hand sharply. He was putting it on a little too much for her taste and she worried it would spook Midge Hawkins. Instead, it worked like a charm.
“Well, I never could be one to stand in the way of love,” she said. She grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled something on it. When she slid it over to Quinn, he saw with relief it was an address.
“Thank you so much, Ms. Hawkins,” Quinn said. “God bless you. Really. You don’t know what this means to us.”
He put his arm around Kate and she tried not to look alarmed. How in the world this worked she had no idea. She would have seen it was an act after about five seconds. But Midge Hawkins was beaming from ear to ear.
“Now don’t tell him I said anything,” she said. “I don’t know what he’ll do, but please keep me out of it.”
“Mum’s the word,” Quinn said, and made a zipping motion across his lips. “Thank you so much.”
They turned and walked out of the store, walking quickly back to the car.
“Don’t you think you laid that on a little thick?” Kate asked when they were safely in the car.
“Did it work?” he asked.
“You have a way with people, I’ll give you that,” she said. “Is that your reportorial style-lying?”
“Not generally, no,” he said. “But the old puppy-dog, I-just-need-some-help works particularly well on a certain kind of female, namely older women who are reminded of their sons or grandsons.”
“You’re kind of evil, you know that?” Kate said.
Quinn smiled. “Yeah, but I bet you dig that about me.”
Kate looked away, but he was right. She did dig that about him. In fact, her feelings toward him had moved 180 degrees in just a day. Now that there were no doubts about whether he was working with Lord Halloween, she kept thinking about him. The Tarot card flashed through her mind again, but she realized now she liked him-a lot. She was very glad he was her partner in all of this.
After fifteen minutes sorting out directions, they found themselves heading toward what they hoped was Tim Anderson’s house. The house was further out than they suspected and they drove at least 20 minutes before they came to a remote dirt road. There was no mailbox to mark the location and barely any sign anyone lived there at all.
“I hope this is right,” Quinn said, as he turned down the road.
Far in front of them they could see a house in the distance. It didn’t look like much. Just a small trailer parked directly at the end of the driveway.
“He’s paranoid all right,” Kate said. “He’s designed this to make sure he can see whoever is coming. He’s got to be our guy.”
“I just hope he’s useful,” Quinn said. “If he knew who Lord Halloween was, he probably would have mentioned it by now.”
“We need more information, more context,” Kate said. “We’ve read the letters, but I feel like there is more there. For some reason, Lord Halloween left this guy alive. I need to know why. If he’s a reporter, he also likely saved some of the good stuff.”
“The good stuff?”
“You know, the stuff you can’t print? The stuff that’s half rumor or part speculation. That’s the information we need.”
They got to the end of the road, parked and got out. That was when the gunfire started.
Kate and Quinn both dove behind the car as a series of gunshots dug up dust all around them.
“Get the fuck off my property!” a voice shouted.
More gunshots rang out. Quinn suddenly felt like he was in a war zone. He heard bullets slam into the ground all around the car. He actually started to laugh and Kate looked at him like he’d gone crazy.
“What the hell are you laughing about?” Kate asked. She wondered if Quinn was finally cracking due to the stress.
“I have the best time with you,” he said, smiling. “A madman broke into my home and tried to kill us both, and now I’m getting shot at. Believe it or not, I actually had a normal life before you came along.”
“Well, it’s not my fault,” she said. “You picked the wrong county to live in, Quinn.”
It took them a minute for them to realize the gunfire had stopped. They didn’t dare move.
“He could be moving to get a better position on us,” Quinn said.
“I don’t think so,” Kate said. “Whoever is shooting at us is an expert marksmen. He didn’t hit the car once from what I can tell and he’s shooting in such a way that there’s little danger of ricochet. He doesn’t want to kill us, just scare us.”
“Speaking personally,” Quinn said, “It is working.”
“We just want to talk to you!” Kate yelled.
The gunfire started again, hitting the ground on both sides of the car.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” Quinn said.
The gunfire stopped.
“Just go,” the voice said. “I don’t want to talk to any reporters.”
So he knows who we are, Quinn thought. He wasn’t surprised. Midge or one of the other people they talked to must have phoned ahead. He probably knew exactly why they were there. Which meant something else: he really was Tim Anderson.
Kate stood up and walked around the car. Quinn jumped up to stop her.
“What are you doing?” he said, trying to grab her to drag her back behind the car. She shook herself loose.
“You aren’t going to kill me,” Kate yelled.
A single gunshot rang out and a puff of dirt flew from the ground just by her feet.
“I will if I have to,” the voice called back.
Quinn tried to look at where the shots were coming from. He could just make out a shape behind an open window and something black, metal and ominous sticking through it.
“We’re not here for a story about you,” Kate said. “We’re here for what you know.”
“I don’t know anything about him!” the voice said. “You’re wasting time and putting me in danger.”
“You’ve always been in danger,” Kate said. “I have to find this guy.”
There was laughter inside the house. It sounded old and bitter.
“For what? A story? Because you want to play junior detective? Give me a break. You guys look about twelve.”
“My mother was Sarah Blakely,” Kate said.
Quinn stood beside her waiting to see if they would get shot. At least it would be quick-he hoped it would be quick. If Lord Halloween found them, that would undoubtedly be a slow and painful death.
There was a long pause.
“I just want to talk to you,” Kate said. “He’s hunting me again. I need to stop him.”
“You can’t,” the voice called back. “No one can.”
“Then I’m dead already,” Kate said. “So you can at least talk to me.”
There was another long pause. They waited for what felt like an eternity. Quinn thought he saw the shape by the window move and then the front door opened. A man walked out, about Quinn’s height with mouse brown hair. He was unshaven and looked older than the early forties that he was. Both Kate and Quinn walked forward.
The man looked tired. He wore old jeans with holes in them and a white t-shirt that showed off his beer gut. The rifle he carried in his hand added to the overall impression that he was little more than stereotypical white trash. But his eyes were a dark brown and he seemed to be looking everywhere at once, his eyes darting this way and that. It was unsettling and Quinn thought it made him look crazy. Which maybe he was.
The man laid the rifle near the steps and walked towards them. He looked like someone who expected them to try and attack him at any second.
Kate stuck out her hand and the man almost flinched.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Fillmore,” she said.
“Please,” the man said. “You already know who I am. The name’s Tim Anderson. And this is the last time I will ever introduce myself this way. Shall we go inside?”
The inside was cramped and dirty. Kate and Quinn sat in the living room looking at the sole decoration in the house: guns. Every different type of assortment hung on the wall. Quinn wondered if ammo was nearby and wouldn’t have been surprised if it was.
Anderson sat down.
“I wasn’t into guns before I met Lord Halloween,” he said. “But afterwards… Well, it seemed like a good idea to be prepared.”
Kate nodded.
“I got my first gun as soon as we moved,” she said. “After my Mom died. My Mom had never really wanted me to be trained on a weapon, but after she was gone, well, my Dad thought she would understand.”
Anderson nodded.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
“Tracked your writing style,” Quinn responded. “There’s an internet program…”
“The one Alexis wrote about?” Anderson said.
“Yeah. You still read the paper?”
“Every week,” he said. “I have to.”
“It would be your first sign that he’s returned,” Kate said.
Anderson nodded again.
“I’m going to save you a lot of trouble,” he said. “I don’t know who he is. If I did I would have told the police or died trying to kill him myself.”
“I know,” Kate said. “But I think his interaction with you is critical. The letters tell a part of the story, but not all of it makes sense. Why not use his nickname earlier? He claims he killed a girlfriend of yours and then he let you go. I never knew he let anyone go.”
Anderson sighed and waited.
“I’ll start at the beginning,” he said. “The Chronicle was my home and I loved it. I worked every day and had very little social life. In those days, I was a rising star. Laurence let me do whatever I wanted and once I started winning Virginia Press Association awards, Ethan let him pay me closer to a living wage. I was a big fish in a little pond and I liked it. I didn’t expect to be there much longer-maybe a couple more years-before I would try my hand at the Post or one of the dailies just outside D.C.”
“Then Lord Halloween showed up,” Kate said.
“I thought the first letter was a joke,” Anderson said, and he wasn’t looking at them anymore. He was staring at the window as if lost in memory. “‘Some of what I tell you will be lies.’ He had said it himself. I thought it was some kind of prank that Buzz or Kyle had created.”
“They both worked there then?” Quinn asked.
“Buzz did,” Anderson replied. “Kyle was actually working for the fire department at the time, but he desperately wanted to be a reporter. He was always hanging around the paper, wanting to know the latest scoops. He asked me to help get him a job, which I did, albeit unintentionally. I left. Anyway, those guys were both known for a practical joke or two, so I thought this was a good one. I thought it was sick, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t take it seriously. I did what any good reporter does, however. I checked out the scene myself.
“Up until the moment I found her body, I still thought it was a setup. Just where he told me, there was an easel set up and painting equipment. And I kept thinking, ‘Wow. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make this joke work.’ I walked around the park, looked at the painting, which was quite good, and was just about to get back in my car when I saw it. There was a clump of forest just outside the clearing and I saw something glinting in the sun. It was a paintbrush. So I went over to check it out and the body was just ten feet away. There was blood all over the ground and the number of flies buzzing around her was incredible. I didn’t know they could be that loud-or there would be that many. I vomited into the bushes. I had never seen a dead body and I simply couldn’t look away. It wasn’t like the movies. I kept looking at her face, which looked frozen in agony.”
“What did you tell the police?”
“Everything,” he said. “I knew if I didn’t it would look suspicious. I knew enough not to contaminate the crime scene, drove to the office, gave the letter to Laurence and we called the police together. Showed them the letter, which they promptly took, and they went to find the body. I spent a full day being questioned by them. I think many of the cops thought the letter was a ruse-that the woman was somehow my girlfriend and I had just created an elaborate scheme. I don’t think they seriously considered that it was for real. Well, not until the second letter.”
“Did you check that out ahead of time too?” Quinn asked.
“No,” Anderson said. “That time I just called the police. I had no choice. They had ordered Ethan Holden not to publish the letters and I was to hand them over as soon as they came in. I wasn’t even supposed to read them first.”
“Ordered him not to publish?” Quinn asked. “They can’t do that.”
“That was what I said,” Anderson responded. “In the early days, it was all about journalistic integrity to me. We had a duty to warn the public, we had a responsibility to give information to the readership. And hell, it was a good story, right? It wasn’t the primary motivating factor, but I’m not saying I didn’t know that.”
“But Laurence wouldn’t do it?”
“The problem wasn’t Laurence,” Anderson said. “It was Ethan. He would rant and rave about not being a puppet to a madman. He saw it as a noble thing that we weren’t publishing the letters. For a while, we didn’t even use the nickname. I couldn’t change his mind. I actually thought about giving the letters to the Post, but I was being watched too carefully. As soon as I got a letter, I would show it to Laurence, he would make a copy, and we would give it to police. But the cops got wise to the act. They got a couple of the letters before I could even see them.”
“What happened?”
“If you’ve seen the letters, you know,” Anderson said. “He got angry. He didn’t get the publicity he wanted and I wasn’t doing my job. I managed to sneak a few things into the early articles so that he didn’t feel like I was totally ignoring him, but I didn’t see it as my job to do his bidding. I didn’t really think he would come after me. It sounds stupid now, but I was a journalist and we view ourselves as protected. I could cross crime scene lines, ask rude questions to important people-we are observers of the world, not participants.”
“But Lord Halloween didn’t see it that way,” Kate said.
“No,” he said. “First there were the phone calls. They started in the evening. Just someone calling and then hanging up. I could never hear anything but breathing. But the calls started coming in the middle of the night. I kept my phone on in case there was some kind of emergency and at first I didn’t want to turn it off, but eventually I had to. There was no pattern to them. He could call you at 1 a.m., then fifteen minutes later, then wait two hours. But I wasn’t sleeping well. I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep and when I finally did-the phone would ring.”
“He was trying to harass you, put you off guard,” Kate said.
“Exactly,” he said. “It struck me as a militaristic tactic, really. It was strategic. He didn’t want me to be thinking totally clearly. And then I started to feel watched. When I went to the grocery store, I would feel like someone was following me. I would park my cart, walk over to get milk and come back and find some of the things I thought I had bought weren’t there. I know it sounds crazy, but do you have any idea how unnerving that is? He’s messing with my fucking shopping cart in the middle of a store and I don’t catch a glimpse of him? And then I was doubting myself. Did I really buy that guacamole? It only happened a few times-but it happened, I know it did. The last time my entire cart was rammed into a store display. The manager thought some kid did it, but I knew. Of course I knew.
“And it got worse. He bled into everything. I would be at the book store and books would start falling off the shelves around me, just barely missing my head in one case. No one ever saw anything and I just seemed crazy. Maybe I was crazy, I don’t know. I saw him everywhere in everything. I couldn’t be anywhere anymore without a clear line of sight. I moved my desk to a far wall so no one could sneak up behind me. I bought four extra locks and a security system for my apartment-this was before the real rush on that stuff occurred. I was afraid to shower or play music or watch TV or do anything that made any noise.”
Anderson was shaking then, not looking at anyone. He was slightly rocking back and forth as if trapped in a memory.
“And then Carrie…”
There was a long pause. Quinn wondered if he would start talking again and then Kate quietly said, “Carrie Sterns?”
For just a moment, the spell was broken and Anderson looked up.
“Yeah,” he said. “Victim number nine to you, isn’t she?”
Kate shook her head. “You should know better.”
“Right,” Anderson said. “Your mother.”
“She was your girlfriend?” Quinn asked.
Anderson laughed. Once again, Quinn was struck by how little warmth or humor was in that laugh.
“No,” Anderson said. “That was the thing. She wasn’t. She was just a girl I knew in the advertising department. She was pretty and I liked her, but we had only gone out once after work. It wasn’t a serious thing and we didn’t even kiss. She was so sweet, though. The reporters never mixed with the advertising staff, but she was an exception. Everyone loved her. She was nice and thoughtful. She remembered birthdays. I at first thought she was flirting with me-that’s why I asked her out-but I realized later she was that way with everyone. She was one of those people that make you think the world is better and brighter than it is.”
“And he murdered her,” Kate said.
“No,” Anderson said forcefully. “He butchered that girl. Murder is too nice a word for what he did. He tortured her. I saw the police report. It took hours for her to die. Hours in which I’m sure she begged for God, or the police, or anyone to come find her. Hours in which she was lying so near other people that if they had only heard her, they could have saved her.”
“She died by the printing press,” Kate said.
Anderson looked surprised.
“How could you possibly know that?” he asked.
Kate shook her head. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” Anderson said, and his eyes looked shrunken and hollow. “It matters to me. That girl’s death is my fault. I didn’t cut her face up or make small incisions on her body to let the maximum amount of blood drain without letting her die quickly, but it’s my fault. He killed her because I didn’t do my job. He killed her because I didn’t give the public all the information it deserved. He killed her because I listened to the cowards and the fools who say they have control, when they control nothing! All they wanted is to control information. Did they try to find the killer, or did they just hope he would go away? They were powerless to stop him and they did everything they could to make it seem like they were in charge, but he was in charge.
“I broke the rules and a sweet, pretty, lovely girl who always remembered birthdays and everyone loved died in the worst fashion I can imagine. We were all in the building, did you know that? She was dying and calling for help and we were all there! All of us upstairs making changes and doing our jobs and she was begging us to help. But we couldn’t hear her. The printing press was running and running and running and it was so loud. She died screaming for help, knowing it was seconds away.”
Tim Anderson wrapped his arms around his legs. Quinn had the feeling this was something he had wanted to say for 12 years and never had.
“In the letter, he made it sound like you were dating Carrie,” Kate said. “Do you think he knew you weren’t?”
“Oh, he knew,” Anderson said. “It was all just an elaborate trap. I had to spend hours talking to the police about a relationship that simply did not exist. They thought I did it. Once again, they thought I was Lord Halloween. Because why not? They couldn’t find any other candidates. Holober was a sick fuck, but he wasn’t a serial killer and they knew it. He was just another schizophrenic. They wanted a better candidate. I spent hours with the police. Hours I should have been looking for the real killer.”
“What happened? Why didn’t they blame you?”
“Holden happened,” he said. “He showed up with a lawyer and scared the shit out of them. He got them to seal the records on Carrie’s death, too. She was listed as a victim of Lord Halloween, but he convinced the police to keep where the body was found as confidential. He said it was about protecting information that only the killer would know, but I knew better. It was about protecting his precious paper.”
“And after that?”
“By then, all hell had broken loose anyway,” Anderson said. “The town banned Halloween, trick or treating, you name it. They would have agreed to any demand from Lord Halloween, if he had asked. And I just followed the story. Ethan finally gave me free rein to write about the impact on the town, speculation as to the killer’s motives, everything. Lord Halloween was happy with me. He wanted chaos and I gave it to him. I couldn’t write about the letters, but I wrote enough. There was sufficient information to characterize the killer and I did it.”
“So he let you live?” Kate asked. “You did what he wanted and he let you live.”
“Oh no,” Anderson said. “With him, there is always something beneath the surface. He set up a final test. You read the hint he gave already; pull no punches. That was about the police, but I pulled no punches with everyone. I am surprised Laurence let me publish it-certainly Ethan was pissed as soon as it came out, so he apparently didn’t know anything about it. Go find it in the archives. It was the best piece I have ever written-a sum up of the murders, the town’s reaction, the paper’s involvement, and the killer himself. And I let everyone have it.
“‘When we give in to madmen, we lose the most vital part of ourselves. And we have given in to Lord Halloween. We have panicked, turned on each other and lost our way. In a time when we should be united against fear, we have let it run rampant, divided ourselves and given terror a free hand. This man-and that is all he is or will ever be-is a thief. He has robbed us of our safety, our piece of mind and our faith in each other. He has stolen our very soul. And we have let him do this. Where we should stand firm and fast, we have wilted. Where there should be resolve, there was cowardice. For that, we bear some responsibility.’”
“Sounds like Lord Halloween would have loved it,” Quinn said.
But Anderson wasn’t finished yet.
“‘But I do not forget who holds the most responsibility for this month that will never end. It is the man who calls himself Lord Halloween. He preys on the weak, feeds on fear and lurks in the shadows. He does this under the illusion it makes him powerful. It makes him nothing. He is a phantom and nothing more. True, he has held a mirror to our faces and we have been found wanting.
“‘But if we have given into fear, so has he. He could have played a part in this world, but he has chosen to hide in it. He strikes at us because there are things he doesn’t understand: love, compassion and empathy. They have always been alien to him. He mocks them with his actions, but the truth is something he must know: he envies us. We experience feelings he can’t know or express and he hates us for them. He is a creature to be pitied, not feared. He is alone in this world and always will be. When we pick up the pieces of our lives, we will go on loving, caring and empathizing. We can hope we will learn from this miserable experience and stand stronger against the things that would tear us apart. He, however, will be by himself, lost in a world he cannot fathom.
“’I do not fear you Lord Halloween, I fear what you have wrought in us. One day we may bring you to justice, but if we do not, do not think it has not already been meted out. You have been judged and found unworthy.’”
“Damn,” Kate said.
“You should have been dead man walking.”
“I expected it,” Anderson said. “That was published on Oct. 31. And I went home and waited for him to strike. I wasn’t going to make it easy. I had bought a shotgun and I sat in a corner of the room where no one could sneak up on me through a window or anything else. I didn’t answer the phone, I wasn’t going to be baited outside. I just waited. It never occurred to me that he would let me live. Why should he? I had called him out. I had told him who he really was. I had struck him with the only weapon I have, the only one that ever matters: the pen.”
“And you remember it word for word?”
“I took a long time to write it,” he replied.
“What happened?” Quinn asked.
“At about midnight exactly, a letter was pushed through my door. I watched it come through, but I didn’t move. I assumed it was a trick. I would get up, read the letter and he would somehow sneak in behind me. So I sat there for six more hours. I could hear the birds in the trees and dawn was coming. And I thought, ‘What does it matter now? He’ll get me in the end anyway.’ And I got up and read the letter.”
“He let you live,” Kate said.
“Yes. I realize now it was his way of saying goodbye. He told me in no uncertain terms to get lost, but he also said he was letting me go. I didn’t fully believe him, but I suppose the fact that I am still here means he was serious.”
“Why?”
Anderson got up and paced around the room.
“You’ve seen the letter,” Anderson said. “I gave it to Laurence, whom I know kept copies. He kept copies on all of Lord Halloween’s victims.”
“Why?” Kate asked.
Anderson shook his head.
“Laurence was once a reporter, too,” he said. “It was a good story. A good journalist keeps all his notes. I’m assuming he gave you those letters from Lord Halloween. I know the police didn’t.”
“I wouldn’t say he gave them to us…” Quinn said.
Anderson smiled wanly.
“I didn’t feel any relief when I got the letter,” he said. “Not then and not now. I had been let go. I didn’t escape, he had simply chosen to let me live. And I thought about Carrie a lot. About how she died. I also did what he wanted: I left. I knew then that he was going to lay low. My death would have looked like an accident, but he would have found a way to kill me. So I packed up, handed in my resignation and moved west.”
“Why didn’t you go further away?” Kate asked.
“The same reason you came back,” Anderson said. “Because you are never really free. Would I be safer in Seattle? Maybe. But I didn’t know who he was and he could find me, I knew that. Anywhere I went, he could show up and take me out. So there was no point in going far away. I sometimes wonder if he did me no favor by letting me live. I still see him everywhere. I don’t trust anyone and the fact that you found me so quickly shows how useless that was. I’m a haunted man, Quinn O’Brion. I don’t need to tell Kate this: she already knows. I’ve been waiting for him to show up for 12 years.”
“Do you know who he is?” Kate asked.
“No,” Anderson answered. “I had theories at some point, but none of them really held together. I will tell you this: whoever he is, he’s connected with your paper.”
Kate nodded.
“Why do you say that?” Quinn asked.
“He chose me,” Anderson replied. “And at first I was arrogant enough to assume it was about me. But it wasn’t. He chose the paper, not the reporter. I find it curious he hasn’t sent letters to either of you-what that means, I don’t know, but it means something. But I think that paper mattered more to him than the Post or New York Times or any of it-papers, by the way, that did cover his killing spree. I think it was this: I think the Chronicle was his hometown paper. I don’t think he went anywhere for 12 years. I think he just laid low. But whoever he is, he knew who you two were long before he started his latest spree. My guess is he knows everyone at the paper.”
“Ethan Holden?” Kate asked. “That’s who you think it is.”
“You’re perceptive, I’ll give you that,” Anderson responded. “Yes, that’s been a particular focal point for me. He’s a bit old to be running all over town killing people, but you can’t rule it out. He shares certain qualities with Lord Halloween: he’s arrogant, cold-blooded and deeply in need of a conscience. He thinks he’s high minded, but he’s not. I watched him encourage Laurence to take stories in certain directions-ones that might sell more papers, but weren’t exactly true either. Nothing overt. Nothing you could stand up and take a stand against.”
This time it was Quinn who was nodding.
“He’s your best candidate,” Kate said. “But are there others?”
Anderson responded by getting up and walking away again. When he came back, he held a monstrous file in his hand.
“This is it, the Holy Grail,” he said. “As much information as I could collect on everyone. Ethan, Kyle, Buzz, Laurence-even Sheriff Brown is in here. Nothing conclusive on anyone. If you look hard to see if someone’s a murderer, you find all sorts of things that could prove you right. But that doesn’t mean you are. Most people make mistakes and some are even ruthless, but that doesn’t make them killers.”
“You’re giving this to us?” Kate asked.
“It’s yours,” he said. “If Lord Halloween kills you, he’ll find it with you. When he does, he will know who wrote it. If he doesn’t know already you came to see me, he will after that.”
“You want a final showdown,” Quinn said. It wasn’t a question.
“I want it to end,” Anderson said. “I’ve been waiting for 12 years. It’s long enough. I won’t just kill myself-that’s a coward’s way out. And I won’t go down easy. But I’m through waiting. Either you finish him or he finishes me.”
“Thank you for all your help,” Kate said.
“How could I refuse you?” he asked. “I met your mother once, working a crime story. You look stunningly like her-same blue eyes and blond hair. She was beautiful. When I saw her, it was to meet your dad. She knew your dad didn’t like to talk to reporters, but she couldn’t have been nicer to me. I’m sorry for what that man did to her. I’m sorry for what he did to you.”
“I’m going to finish him,” she said. “I’m going to make him pay.”
Kate and Quinn rose to leave. As they were heading out the door, Anderson spoke for a final time.
“Promise me something,” he said. “When you find him, don’t treat him like the monster he wants to be. He gets off on that. He’s just a man. Treat him that way.”
When they were in the car driving away, Quinn turned and asked, “What did that mean? Treat him that way.”
“He meant he wanted us to kill him,” Kate said. “Don’t capture. Don’t wait for the police. If we get a chance, take him down.”
“You think you could?” Quinn asked, but he already knew the answer. He had trouble imagining himself hurting anyone, much less killing them.
“It’s not a matter of could,” she said. “When I find him, I will.”
Kyle paused while cutting onions and waited. He was preparing dinner, but he moved slowly. He kept listening for the scanner to go off.
There would be action again soon-he could feel it. All day he had waited for the call. A new body, a panicked police source, but nothing had come.
He managed to finish making dinner without any unusual scanner activity. He flipped the TV on while he ate.
He turned the channel to find some wrestling, found it and watched it without paying much attention to it. He still had one ear cocked for any squawk of the scanner.
A loud thud came from outside and Kyle jumped out of the chair. God, he was testy, he thought. It was probably just a package being delivered. Still, he weighed possibilities in his mind, decided it was better to be cautious and moved to the kitchen. He picked up the knife on the counter, still moist from chopping onions.
He looked outside the kitchen window and saw nothing. He could wait here, but Kyle preferred action to waiting. If someone was playing a game, let them come. He would be ready.
He walked toward the back patio and slid open the sliding glass door. He moved slowly and quietly. He thought with some irony that this would make a good story. A very good first-person perspective piece.
Kyle crept around the outside of his house, keeping his eyes peeled for any movement. When he got outside the kitchen, he saw it. The bushes right by the window had been trampled. Someone had been looking in.
He held the knife steady in front of him and kept walking. If someone was here bent on mischief, they would have another thing coming. Kyle had not spent years in the service so that he could be sneaked up on and ambushed.
Kyle came around the front of his house and saw with some shock that the door was open. He cursed himself. Had he even locked it? He should have been more careful.
It occurred to him that his tracker knew he had been running around outside the house. Shit. Now the person was inside and he was the one skulking.
He felt a twinge of anxiety as he crept to the front door. He should be more careful. He could even call the police. But he pushed that thought away. They would mock him for calling them out here if they didn’t find anything. He wasn’t sure he could take it. No, he would handle this as he did everything else-by himself.
He crept up to his front stoop and slowly opened the storm door in front. It squeaked slightly and made Kyle wish that he had oiled it more recently.
The front door stood wide open. Closing the storm door quietly behind him, Kyle carefully walked in, the knife still at his side.
He tensed with every muscle and listened. He moved to the stairs and walked down into his den.
Slowly, Kyle thought. I mustn’t rush. He thought about his gun upstairs, but he had not used it in years. Mostly it had been there for decoration, since Kyle had never fully embraced the weapon.
He pushed himself up against the far left wall and crept ever so slowly forward. He checked behind him, but there was nothing. Moving forward, he edged around and looked beyond the corner, just briefly.
Sure enough, there was a figure sitting in the chair in his computer room.
“You can come out now, Kyle,” the voice said, startling him. “I’ve been watching you for some time. You aren’t nearly so clever as you think you are.”
Kyle walked around the corner and instantly recognized who sat in the chair. He took a step back in surprise.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Kyle asked. “Don’t you know there is a murderer on the loose?”
“Yes,” the figure said and chuckled slightly. “I do.”
Even though he was draped in shadow, Kyle saw him pull something large from behind him.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” Kyle asked.
“I think you know,” the figure replied.
Kyle realized that the man had a gun pointing at him.
“Jesus, you can’t be serious,” said Kyle, backing up.
There is a way out of this, he thought. I will not go down like this.
“Deadly,” the figure said. “Don’t make a move, Kyle. Not even a sound. I knew you would be trouble, so don’t think I won’t fire first. I’m taking no chances here. But don’t worry, that is not what I have in store for you. I want to take my time with this.”
Kyle decided that he would have to make his move soon. He gripped the knife at his right side and wondered how quickly he could throw it.
The figure took one step toward him and Kyle made his move. He flung the knife in the figure’s direction and darted off to the right. As he started to move, Kyle heard the gun go off.
Nov. 1, 1994
Dear Tim,
At least you went out with a bang. I want you to understand two things: I fully intended to kill you the other day, but I’m not going do so anymore. You have proven worthy. You were brave when most men would have been cowardly. You signed your name to an article you knew would infuriate me, with the full knowledge that I would end you for it.
Your words did cut to the bone, Tim. I won’t lie. But right is right and sometimes even I have to concede a point. So, congratulations, you get to live.
There is one condition to this: you have to leave. I don’t want to keep seeing you around. Eventually, I’m bound to let my anger get the best of me. It wouldn’t be a death at the hands of Lord Halloween-they caught him, remember? — but it would be an untimely accident.
You have three days. If I see you here again, your death will be so quick, your soul will leave your body before your corpse even hits the ground. Leave Loudoun County to me. Find somewhere else to roam. I’m finished with you.
Sincerely,
Lord Halloween