“It was from a distance,” he said. “That’s your setup, isn’t it? Like she just came out of the shower?”
“I see. You thought it was a girl named Chynna from your community center, right?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, I looked for this Chynna, Dan. Your mystery girl. Just to cross my t’s and dot my i’s. We had you sit down with our sketch artist.”
“I know this.”
“And you know that I showed that sketch to everyone in the area—not to mention every employee and resident at your community center. No one knows her, no one saw her, nothing.”
“I told you. She came to me in confidence.”
“Convenient. And someone also used your laptop from your house to send those horrible messages?”
He said nothing.
“And—help me here, Dan—someone downloaded those photos onto it too, right? Oh, and someone—me perhaps, if we believe your lawyer—hid disgusting pictures of children in your garage.”
Dan Mercer closed his eyes, defeated.
“You know what you should do, Dan? Now that you’re free, now that the law can’t touch you, you should get help. See a therapist.”
Dan shook his head and managed a smile.
“What?”
He looked up at her. “You’ve been catching pedophiles for two years, Wendy. Don’t you know?”
“Know what?”
His voice from the corner was a whisper. “You can’t cure pedophiles.”
Wendy felt the chill. And that was when the trailer door burst open.
She jumped back, the screen nearly slamming into her. A man with a ski mask slid inside. There was a pistol in his right hand.
Dan raised his hands, took another step back. “Don’t . . .”
The man in the ski mask pointed the gun at him. Wendy scrambled back, out of sight, and then, just like that, the man in the ski mask fired.
There had been no warning, no telling Dan not to move or to put his hands in the air, nothing like that. Just the hissing, short boom of gunfire.
Dan spun and went down face-first.
Wendy screamed. She dropped flat behind the old couch, as though that could provide protection. From underneath she could see Dan lying on the floor. No movement. A puddle of blood spread around his head, staining the carpet. The executioner crossed the room. No rush. Casual. Taking a stroll through the park. He stopped where Dan lay. He aimed the gun down toward Dan’s head.
And that was when Wendy noticed the watch.
It was a Timex with one of those twist-a-flex bands. Just like her own dad wore. Everything slowed down for a few seconds. The height, Wendy saw now, was right. So too the weight. Then you add in the watch.
It was Ed Grayson.
He fired twice more into Dan’s head, a noise like cut-off thuds. Dan’s body bucked from the impact. Panic grabbed hold of her. She fought through it. Clear thinking. That was what she needed now.
Two options here.
Option one, talk it out with Grayson. Convince him she was on his side.
Option two, flee. Make for the door, run to her car, get out of here.
There were problems with both options. Option one, for example: Would Grayson believe her? She had turned him away just hours ago, had in fact lied to him, and here she was, secretly meeting with Dan Mercer, a man she’d just seen shot down in cold blood. . . .
Option one wasn’t sounding so good, which left . . .
She scrambled for the open door.
“Stop!”
Keeping herself low, she stumbled more than ran out the door.
“Wait!”
Not a chance, she thought. She rolled into the sunlight. Keep moving, she thought. Don’t slow down.
“Help!” she screamed.
No response. The park was still abandoned.
Ed Grayson came bounding out the door behind her. The gun was in his hand. Wendy kept running. The other trailers were too far in the distance.
“Help!”
Gunshots.
The only place to duck and hide was behind her car. Wendy ran for it. Another burst of gunfire. She dived behind the car, using it as a shield. She had left the door unlocked.
Risk it?
What choice did she have? Stay here and let him walk around and shoot her?
She fished into her pocket and got her car remote. She unlocked the door. Even better, when Charlie had gotten his driver’s permit, her son had insisted that they get one of the start remotes because on those winter mornings they could let the car warm up from the kitchen. She had bemoaned this indulgence, of course, her pampered son too soft to stand the cold for a few minutes. Now she wanted to kiss him for it.
The car turned on.
Wendy opened the driver’s-side door and, head down, got inside. She glanced out the window. The gun was aimed right at the car. She ducked down.
More gunshots.
She waited for the sound of shattering glass. Nothing. No time to worry about that now. Lying on her side, she shifted into drive. The car began to move. Using her left hand, she pressed on the gas pedal and drove blindly. She hoped like hell that she wouldn’t hit anything.
Ten seconds passed. How far had she driven?
Enough, she figured.
Wendy sat up and slid into the seat. The masked Grayson was in her rearview mirror, running toward her, gun raised.
She slammed on the gas pedal, her head snapping back, and drove until there was no one in the rearview mirror. She grabbed her cell phone. Still no bars. She dialed 9-1-1, hit send anyway, and got the CALL FAILED beep for her trouble. She drove a full mile away. Still no bars. She headed back toward Route 206 and tried again. Nothing.
Three miles later, the call went through.
“What’s the nature of your emergency?” a voice said.
“I need to report a shooting.”
CHAPTER 7
BY THE TIME WENDY TURNED THE CAR around and drove back to the trailer, three Sussex County squad cars were on the scene. There was an officer covering the perimeter.
“Are you the lady who called this in?” the officer asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
“I’m fine.”
“Do you require any medical assistance?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You said on the phone that the perpetrator was armed?”
“Yes.”
“And that he was alone?”
“Yes.”
“Please come with me.”
He led her to a squad car and opened the back door. She hesitated.
“For your safety, ma’am. You’re not under arrest or anything.”
She slid into the back. The officer closed the door and took the driver’s seat. He kept the engine turned off and continued peppering her with questions. Every once in a while he would hold up his hand to stop her and radio some of what she’d said to, Wendy assumed, another officer. She told him everything she knew, including her suspicion that the perpetrator was Ed Grayson.