The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [55]
Sonny wasn’t too quick on the draw, and he gave it some more thought.
“That he’s a master criminal?”
“He’s more than that,” I said. “Even master criminals lose their cool when they’re committing a crime, especially a cold-blooded murder. This guy didn’t lose his cool.”
“You make him sound like a genius,” Sonny said.
I looked down at the water-stained bar while playing back everything I knew. Whoever was responsible for these crimes had out-smarted the police every step of the way. He planned his crimes meticulously, and he didn’t leave clues.
“He is a genius,” I said quietly. “Only the police haven’t figured that out yet.”
“What a surprise,” Sonny said. “Drink your beer.”
The second beer went down way too easily, as did the third. Soon the Dwarfs appeared, and the place got noisy. I went upstairs and stretched out on my bed with Buster curled up beside me. Shutting my eyes, I was soon floating in that hazy area between sleep and reality.
“Jack.”
The voice came out of nowhere. I opened my eyes, and found myself standing behind the Smart Buy next to the Dumpsters. Unearthly shadows danced across the property beneath a full moon.
“Jack.”
I spun around, trying to determine where the voice had come from.
“Jack.”
I looked at the Dumpsters. The milk crate I’d used that morning was still there. I stepped onto it, and flipped open the closest Dumpster’s lid. The interior was filled with black garbage bags that shimmered eerily beneath the moonlight.
“Jack.”
A bag in the back caught my eye. A woman’s face was pushing through the plastic. I pulled the bag toward me and tore it open.
“Hold on,” I said.
As the plastic came away, Piper Stone’s face materialized. Her mouth was still frozen, her neck ringed by her killer’s hands. Her eyes snapped open.
“Jack!” she said.
I tried to reply, but the words were frozen in my mouth. Stone sat upright, and put her hands around my forearms. I tried to pull back, but her grip was like iron.
“Help me,” she said.
Her eyes were hollow and black. Suddenly the other bags in the Dumpster came to life, the plastic shredding to reveal more dead women lying inside. They sat up, and stared at me with their lifeless eyes.
“Jack!” they all said.
I looked into their faces. The other dead women were young, and their necks had been ravaged by a killer’s hands. The women started to cry, the tears rolling silently down their cheeks. I could not help myself, and began to cry as well.
A pounding on my door snapped me awake. The moon was peeking through my window, and Buster was up on my bed, licking my face.
“It’s open,” I said hoarsely.
Sonny stuck his head in. “You okay?”
I took several deep breaths. “Never better.”
“I heard you yelling, and thought maybe something was wrong.”
“Was I really yelling?”
“Only like someone was sticking a knife in you. Come downstairs and I’ll buy you a beer. I was just cleaning up.”
“What time is it?”
“About three-thirty.”
“Was I really loud?”
“Shit, yeah. I almost called the cops.”
My room had grown chilly, and I draped the bedspread over my shoulders, and followed Sonny downstairs. I took a stool at the bar, and tried to pull myself together. Stone’s haunting voice still rang in my ears. I could feel her hands, and the hands of the other dead women, clutching me like they were never going to let go.
Sonny served me a beer. “This will make you feel better.”
“You think so?” I asked.
“It’s always worked for me.”
I took a swallow. The beer was cold and good, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I pushed it away.
“What was I yelling?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Something about being sorry.”
“Being sorry about what?”
Sonny began to wipe down the bar. “It was weird. You were yelling ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ and your voice kept getting louder. Finally I ran upstairs and woke you up.”
I thought back to the dead women. Each one had seemed real, and not just a figment of my imagination. So real that