The Burning Man Page 5
She led him down the hall and into a large, brightly lit room with no windows. Inside were several modern steel desks, each one with its own large, beige plastic computer. They were all taken by students, except for the one farthest from the door.
“Here,” she said, pulling an extra chair up beside the desk. “Let’s try a search on the World Wide Web.”
“The world wide what?” Tony took a seat in the extra chair and frowned at the monitor screen.
The librarian smiled. Way too much of her pale pink gums was visible between her upper lip and her teeth.
“Since you’ve been overseas,” she said, all breathless and excited to be talking about what was clearly one of her favorite subjects, “you’ve missed out on a ton of awesome tech development back home.”
Really, this was almost too easy.
“What are the names of the two girls?” she asked.
“Start with the older one,” he said. “Olivia Dunham.”
He spelled out the last name on a piece of yellow scrap paper.
“Got it,” she said, long thin fingers flying on the keyboard. “See this is called AltaVista. You can use this cool new program to execute a search for a person or a topic or anything. But you need to narrow the results by using Boolean operators like ‘AND’ or ‘NOT.’ See, like this.”
“Wow, that’s amazing,” Tony said, ignoring the screen completely and looking at the librarian. “Say, you’re really smart. I bet a lot of guys see a pretty blonde like you and think you must be dumb. Boy, are they in for a surprise. You’re the total package. Beauty and brains.”
The librarian blushed and tucked her head down, a shy smile on her homely face. She didn’t say anything, just kept on typing.
“Okay,” she said after a few moments. “Check this out. I got a hit on the website for this prep school in Westley, Massachusetts called the Deerborn Academy. There are two Dunhams, Olivia and Rachel registered this semester. Looks like a pretty fancy place, so they must have somebody looking after them financially. Hey, check this out, here’s a picture of the older one, see if that’s her.”
Tony’s breath caught and he leaned into the monitor, desperate for a glimpse of Olivia. But the screen was mostly blank. Nothing but a little stripe of darkness at the top of the frame that was getting gradually wider one line at a time.
“I don’t see any picture,” Tony said.
“Give it a minute,” the librarian said. “It takes time to load.”
This excruciating striptease went on and on for what felt like ages, revealing first the top of a group of heads wearing matching caps, then, line by line, their faces. The kids in the photo were holding rifles and wearing yellow-tinted eye protectors.
The photo was eventually revealed to be a group shot of the Deerborn Academy Rifle Team. There was only one female, on the far left of the top row. It had to be Olivia. She wore the same eye protectors and team cap as the rest, and the photo was pretty small, so it wasn’t that easy to distinguish her features. But he could see that she was tall now, as tall as—taller even—than most of the boys on the team.
The front of her blue team uniform shirt had filled out quite nicely since their last encounter. He could make out part of a blond ponytail half hidden behind her right shoulder, so she hadn’t changed her hair color, although it did seem just a little bit darker than he remembered. More of a warm golden blond than the pale tresses he remembered twisting like electrified snakes around her flushed face in the seconds before she’d burned his arm off.
“Amazing,” he said softly, feeling genuinely choked up and not bothering to hide it. “That’s absolutely amazing. Thank you so much for your help. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
“My pleasure,” the librarian said, flashing that big gummy smile. “I need to get back to my desk now, but you’re welcome to stay logged on and search around a little more on your own.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I think I will.”
It took him some time to get the hang of the program, but he was a quick learner and soon he had called up photos of various Florida Police Academy graduates from a five-year period around the time of his own graduation. It didn’t take him long to find the right man.
8
Tony’s first order of business was to get his hand on some kind of firearm. He’d sketched out a workable schematic for a custom-made, bolt-on blade attachment that he could use in place of the hook on his prosthetic arm, but that wasn’t what he needed for this next phase of his plan. For the more immediate caper, only a gun would do.
It didn’t have to be fancy, it just had to shoot bullets.
He wasn’t exactly in a position—legally or financially—to purchase a gun, so he was going to have to obtain one through more creative methods. Unfortunately, people who owned guns were generally more difficult to rob than people without them.
He’d test-driven and rejected several plans before settling on one he thought would work. He figured that a beginner’s gun safety class was a great place to meet people who owned them, but had no idea how to use them.
Unfortunately, even after all these years, any savvy gun instructor would smell cop all over him, and wouldn’t buy him as a novice. But if all went according to plan, Tony wouldn’t need to actually attend the class in order to get what he needed.
The Thunder Creek Shooting Range was about fifteen miles outside of Gainesville, and the distance required Tony to steal a car in order to get there. That was just as well, since he’d need wheels to tail his chosen target, anyway. He picked a forgettable mid-range Honda sedan with an infant car seat and a yellow diamond sign in the rear window that read BABY ON BOARD. He boosted it and made it out to the range with ten minutes to spare.
Tony sauntered into the range and pretended to browse the glass cases full of ballistic candy, while the attendees at a gun safety class gathered around the instructor—a friendly, smiling older guy with a white mustache whose ample beer belly was barely contained by a tight green polo shirt. But Tony wasn’t interested in the instructor, he was interested in the students.
He made small talk with the plump, older woman behind the counter, pretending to be interested in buying a membership.
“Lost my arm in Bosnia,” he told her, holding up the hook. “So, now I need to start over. Teach myself to shoot with my left hand.”
“God bless you, baby,” she said, giving his good hand a little pat. “Let me give you a brochure.”
He took the pamphlet and pretended to be interested in a story about her son who’d died for his country, God bless him, and how noble it was to make such sacrifices to protect our freedom. He smiled and nodded, all the while watching the class out of the corner of his eye, and singling out the easiest mark.
A woman, maybe early-to-mid thirties. Hispanic and pretty, a hundred pounds, tops. Little gold cross around her fragile neck. No wedding ring. She was wearing a conservative floral print dress and low heels, like she’d just gotten off her job as a receptionist—probably in a dentist’s office or something.
What really drew Tony to her was that she gave off that distinct “victim” vibe. Shy, skittish, unsure of herself. The kind of woman who bought a gun because she’d been hurt before, and didn’t want it to happen again.
Too bad it would.
He told the old lady that he wanted to think about it, before committing to a membership program, then went out to the Honda to wait for the class to end.
* * *
About two hours later, the woman he’d tagged came out of the range, chatting with two of the other students—a chubby redheaded man and another Hispanic female about ten years younger than his target. They stood around a battered yellow Pinto with a bumper sticker that read JESUS ES EL SEÑOR. After a few minutes the other two students broke off and headed toward the back of the lot, while the target got into the car. She backed out of the parking space, then drove in the direction of the exit.
Tony cranked the ignition and followed her.
* * *
He tailed her back to a pretty decent little house in a so-so neighborhood. It had a two-car driveway, but no garage. There were frilly lace curtains in the front window, and when she unlocked the door and went inside, Tony saw her walk over and greet a tiny old lady who looked related. Probably her mother or grandmother. Certainly nobody who would give him any trouble.
As he sat there, watching the two women go about their day, he felt a distracting twinge of heat resonating through his arm, singing Olivia’s name. It was as if she was as impatient as he was.
Like she couldn’t wait for them to be together.
Inside the little house, the target went into a back room and came out wearing a different outfit. Tight jeans and a silky blouse that actually showed a little skin at the neck. There was a short exchange between the two women, and it seemed to be about the number of buttons that should or shouldn’t be open on the blouse.
Without warning, an SUV pulled into the driveway. A big, blond guy with a goatee got out and went to knock on the door.
The target answered, greeting the guy with an anxious smile, waved over her shoulder at the older lady, and then walked with the blond guy over to the passenger side of the SUV.
He opened the door for her like a gentleman, but there seemed to be some sort of hushed argument going on between them. The blond guy closed her door, and then walked around the back of the vehicle to the driver’s side, shaking his head and looking aggravated.
Tony let them pull a discreet distance away, then followed the SUV to a mid-range seafood restaurant and watched them go in. By this time there was a stiff silence between them.
Finding a spot in the parking lot, he waited.
They came out sooner than he’d expected. Clearly they hadn’t lingered over a romantic dinner. And from the look on her face, things had not gone well. Once again they didn’t speak as they got back into the SUV.
Driving back to the house, they pulled into the driveway again. They stayed inside the parked vehicle for nearly an hour, but they weren’t necking. They were fighting, arms waving and angry voices audible despite the distance and the SUV’s closed doors.
Eventually, she got out and ran, crying, up to the door. The older woman was waiting and let her in, putting a comforting arm around her. The blond guy gunned the engine, backed out of the driveway, and accelerated away, burning angry rubber on the tarmac.
Tony was debating whether he should move in now, kill both of the women and get the gun, or whether he should wait and take a little more time to get to know his target and her habits. He knew he should err on the side of caution, but Olivia’s hot harmonic presence inside his brain made him impatient.
He was about to get out of the car when the target came out of the house.
Behind her, the older woman was clinging to her arm, begging her not to go, but she pulled away and ran to her Pinto. As she started it up and peeled out, the older woman in the doorway crossed herself.
Curious, Tony followed the target.
* * *
She drove out of town to a large, rustic-looking house in a wooded area and parked crookedly in front, blocking the driveway. The blond guy’s vehicle was in the driveway, as was a low-end silver sedan. She walked to the front door, opened it with a key, and went inside.
Tony waited with his window rolled down, idly swatting at bugs and fiddling with a fast-food napkin. He’d folded it up as small as it would get, and had just tossed it into the cup holder when a gunshot tore through the muggy silence.
He looked up at the house and saw several bright muzzle flashes through the picture window, each one accompanied by a sharp crack.
Seconds later, the target came running out of the front door, tossed something into the bushes on her left, and then got into her car and drove away.
Tony got out of his car and ran to the front door, squatting down and feeling through the thick, glossy bushes until his fingers found what he was looking for.
The gun.
It was a compact semi-automatic pistol, a tiny little thing that fit into the palm of his hand.
That would do nicely.
He couldn’t resist peeking in through the open front door to see what had gone down. The blond guy with the goatee was on the couch with his pants down and a face full of lead. Facedown on the floor about ten feet away was a dead brunette in heels... and nothing else.
Atta girl, Tony thought, smiling to himself.
Guess she wasn’t such a helpless victim after all.
9
JANUARY 1996
The Deerborn Academy was like a ghost town during the winter holiday. The familiar quad was blanketed in nearly virgin snow, marred only by a single lonely trail left by a custodian’s waffle-tread boots. The gargoyles lurking above the entrance to the James T. Fenwick Library wore white caps and icicle beards. The venerable old science building and the more modern, glass-fronted arts center were both dark and silent.
The four dorms were nearly empty. Most of the students and teachers were home with their families, leaving behind a skeleton crew of bachelor staff and a handful of kids with nowhere else to go. Everyone else would start tricking back in the next day, January 6th, for the start of the new semester. But that night, Olivia and Rachel pretty much had the whole campus to themselves.
Which was the way Olivia liked it.
Rachel had been camping out in Olivia’s room while their respective roommates were home for the holidays. They’d celebrated a quiet Christmas together, and now it was time for another family celebration.
“Happy birthday to you!” Rachel sang, holding out a homemade chocolate cupcake with a single pink candle stuck in the center. “Happy birthday, dear Olivia, happy birthday to youuuuuu!”
“Thanks, sis,” Olivia said, squeezing Rachel into a sideways hug.
“Mrs. Lehman let me use the oven in the cafeteria,” Rachel told her. “Make a wish!”
Olivia didn’t really have a wish, other than a generalized desire to make sure that Rachel would always be taken care of, no matter what. But she blew the candle out anyway.
“Do you feel sixteen?” Rachel asked, setting the cupcake on Olivia’s desk.
Olivia shook her head, and smiled.
“Feels the same, I guess,” she said.
She didn’t tell Rachel that she had felt thirty since she was thirteen. That she didn’t even know what being a teenager was supposed to be like. She also didn’t tell Rachel that she hated her birthday. That she dreaded it every year. While everyone else was celebrating New Year’s Eve, making resolutions and toasting to the future, Olivia was haunted by the past.
Randall.
She hadn’t opened his annual birthday card yet, because she didn’t have the stomach. How had that bastard managed to find her at Deerborn? Would she never be rid of him? She kept telling herself that she should just throw the envelope away unopened, but somehow she never did. Every year she opened that card, and just the sight of his childish, semi-literate handwriting made her physically sick.
He never wrote anything negative or overtly hostile inside those sappy, generic cards, just the phrase “Thinking of you.” But the unwritten message was loud and clear.
I’m still here.
Just a few inches to the left, and that second bullet would have hit his femoral artery, causing him to bleed out before the ambulance arrived. In the years since that terrible night, Olivia had become a champion skeet and trap shooter, and was the current co-captain of the Deerborn Academy Rifle Team. She was driven to excel at the sport—so much so that Coach Lowenbruck had recently started pushing her to try out for the Olympics.
But for Olivia it was too little, too late. Because she’d been so scared that night, so overwhelmed with emotion—and when it really mattered, she’d failed.
It was a failure Randall would never let her forget.
His yearly reminder sat on Olivia’s desk beside Rachel’s charmingly lopsided cupcake. She reached for the pastry
and casually slid the envelope under her history textbook, so her little sister wouldn’t see it and get upset. Rachel was sensitive and deeply superstitious. A girl who loved birthdays and cupcakes and presents. Olivia didn’t want to ruin that for her, so she never told Rachel about the cards.
Olivia made herself smile and took a bite of the cupcake, leaving chocolate and sprinkles smeared across her lips.
“Delicious,” she said. “Thanks, Rach.”
There was a tentative knock on the half-open door, and she jumped involuntarily. Then Kieran McKie stuck his shaggy head into the room.
Kieran was a tall, lanky senior who looked kind of like what you’d get if a teenage mad scientist had joined a grunge band. His unruly brown hair was at that awkward, still-growing-out shoulder length, and his bony wrists always stuck way out of his too-short sleeves. He wore heavy, vintage horn-rimmed glasses and the eyes behind them were the exact same shade of green as Olivia’s.
He wasn’t an orphan, but he may as well have been. His single mother was Kristie McKie, the celebrity fitness trainer. She was always busy jet-setting all over the world, shooting her bestselling workout videos and whipping her famous clients into shape. Holidays were her busiest time, since everyone was being tempted by all that wicked holiday food, and needed to work it off.
As a result Kieran was stuck there at Deerborn with the rest of the holiday orphans. Olivia met him during the Thanksgiving break, and he had quickly become her one and only real friend. She was actually kind of glad to have him around, although she would rather die than admit it.
“Hey,” he said, holding up a festively wrapped package. “Happy birthday!”
Olivia set the half-eaten cupcake down and accepted the present. She could tell from the feel and weight that it was books. She smiled.
“If my powers of deduction serve me well...” She carefully removed the wrapping paper and grinned at the cloth cover revealed beneath. “Oooh, nice.”
“They’re from the 1920s, I think,” he said. “Not fancy first editions or anything like that, but they’re in great condition. That’s A Study in Scarlet, The White Company, and The Sign of Four, plus a few extra short stories, too.”