To Catch a Killer Page 10

  “Hey, Mr. Roberts.” Lysa shoots me a tiny smile over his shoulder. When he turns, I give her a grateful look and mime begging.

  Mr. Roberts scowls. “Excuse me, Alyssa. I’m with another student.” He turns back to me. “Erin, I’m worried about you. Why don’t you come to my office and we can talk about it?”

  “I can’t right now, Mr. Roberts,” I say, tugging on my helmet. “I have to get home. Can we do it tomorrow?”

  “I need something, Mr. Roberts.” Lysa taps him on the shoulder. “Can we go to your office?” When he continues to ignore her, Lysa regards him with wide, frustrated eyes.

  For some reason Mr. Roberts is laser-focused on me and I’m getting desperate. Off to the side, Spam is typing furiously into her phone. Suddenly, nearly every cell phone in the vicinity pings, including my own.

  I check my phone. It’s an SOS blast text, something Spam devised to promote pop-up school functions. It reads: “HEY CS’ERS, ANYONE STILL ON CAMPUS REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO THE GREEN AREA FOR FREE STUFF.”

  I gape at Spam.

  “It’ll just take a minute,” Mr. Roberts says, still trying to get my attention.

  “I’m sorry. I really can’t.” I’m looking past him at the stream of students trickling into the Green Area from all points within the school. Spam’s amazing. She gives me a small shrug and a wink before sauntering off to the parking lot.

  Mr. Roberts’s eyes widen at the throngs of students showing up. “What’s going on here? Excuse me. There’s no loitering on campus. What … free?! There’s nothing free here.”

  I decide to leave before Journey pulls up and our plan is blown. “Bye, Lysa. Bye, Mr. Roberts.” I ease the scooter away from the curb and drive toward the nearest exit. In a show of perfect timing, Journey’s van rumbles up behind me.

  Meanwhile, the crowd around Mr. Roberts continues to grow. He might suspect we were up to something, but he’ll never be able to prove it.

  With Journey tailing me, I drive around the block to a neighborhood where no one at school can see us. Then I pull over. Journey gets out and comes around to the curb.

  “Sorry about that. I had to ditch Principal Roberts.” I slide my helmet off and the static makes my hair stand straight out around my head.

  He stifles a laugh. “With your hair sticking up like that and the sun shining through it you look like a Tesla coil.” His voice catches on a shred of emotion.

  “Oh. Sorry.” I quickly try to pat my hair back into place.

  “Don’t apologize.” Journey takes ahold of Vespy’s handlebars and rolls her toward the back of the van, where he hoists her carefully inside. He even covers her with a tarp and secures her with bungee cords. Then he proceeds around to the passenger side to open the door for me.

  I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and hope I can think of something non-dorky to say. But as Journey pulls away from the curb, he launches into a detailed story about a series of mystery novels he likes where the main character is a reluctant detective who wants nothing to do with solving a crime. Clues and evidence give him an actual rash. But he keeps stumbling over corpses and suffers from a strong moral obligation to get it right.

  Journey glances at me with a somber expression. “I kind of think we’re like that. We want to make sure no one decides we had anything to do with this … but at the same time we want to get it right for Miss Peters.”

  “Yes. For Miss Peters,” I agree.

  While Journey drives, we exchange bursts of conversation, here and there. But there are long bouts of silence, too. The normal state of my brain is a crazy cycle where I’m always trying to stay one step ahead of every situation. But for some reason the air between us just feels easy and comfortable. When I’m with Journey, I can actually breathe and relax. He knows about my past, my investigations. He even knows about the attic … all huge secrets I’ve kept from the people I love the most. It’s hard to believe my fantasy crush has turned out to be the one person I can trust with all of my secrets.

  I stretch my legs out, settle back, and actually relax a little while he drives. I don’t think anything of the few unexpected turns he makes until my familiar neighborhood starts to give way to strip malls and shopping centers and then to run-down industrial areas. At that point, I sit up straighter in my seat and begin tracking the changing landscape. My surroundings are becoming increasingly remote and deserted.

  Relaxed? Did I just think I was relaxed? Because I’m suddenly tense again. Very tense. My fear is threatening to become full-blown panic. I can’t think of a single good reason he would have for bringing me all the way out here. And now I feel stupid. Deadly freaking stupid. What was I thinking, trusting him? I don’t really know anything about him. And I especially don’t know where in the hell he’s taking me. Spam and Lysa know where I am, but they don’t think I’m in any trouble.

  Journey glances over, as if reading my thoughts. “You’re the first friend from school that I’ve brought here.”

  “I thought we were going to your house.” Rachel calls me a cool customer because I usually appear calm on the outside, but my voice comes out shaky and Journey definitely notices.

  “Don’t let the neighborhood scare you. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  I blink at the trash-strewn curbs, the abandoned sofas, the wrecked car parts. It’s a rusted-out ghost town. I’ve heard stories about this place but I’ve never been here. Iron Rain includes a wedge of Oregon coastline bordered by the Pacific Ocean on one side and the Columbia River on the other. A long time ago, this whole area was one fish-canning operation after another. But as the salmon dwindled, so did the industry. Only one broken-down skeleton of a cannery still remains. The urban legend is that the ghost of an old sea captain haunts the place.

  When Journey turns off the main road, it’s clear that’s where he’s headed.

  A scorpion tail of fear wriggles inside me. “The Calistoga cannery’s been closed for years,” I say.

  “I know it looks bad, but we can’t afford to fix it up,” Journey says.

  No lie. The cannery is a condemned hot mess. There’s no way that someone actually lives there. I know Journey didn’t kill my mom or Miss Peters … but what if he knows who did? Aren’t there stories about serial killers working with young protégés? What if Journey is the messenger, bringing me to the real killer, like a gift? My body might never be found.

  I squirm, wondering if I can dial 911 without looking at my phone.

  Obviously Spam could. She’d be all like, Hey everybody, come on down, and she’d include a GPS link, all while holding her phone behind her back. I’d have to muddle around in my bag for at least five minutes just to even find my phone.

  “We?” I manage to get out, my voice barely a squeak.

  “My father bought the place cheap. He was going to apply for a grant and turn it into a historic site with a hotel, shops, and a restaurant. But he wound up in prison instead.”

  I gaze at the weathered, boarded-up hulk of a building looming at the end of the deserted road. It looks like the set for the latest Saw movie.

  “You live in that?”

  “We’re not insane.” He attempts to soothe me with his warm gaze. “It’s nice. You’ll see.”

  He reacts to my incredulous look.

  “I know. But my mother refuses to let it go. She wants my father to have something to come home to.” There’s a sad shadow of a smile on his lips. “She’s been trying to get his case reopened for ten years. All those legal fees don’t leave any room for renovation.”

  He’s so warm and sincere I can’t help being drawn in. Gazing into his eyes quiets my brain enough to slow my panicked breathing. Clearly we should have talked more before I agreed to do this. How did I not know he lived way out here? I need to get my head straight and be more careful. But, for the moment, I sense I am safe.

  Journey puts the van in neutral and sets the emergency brake. He gets out and unlocks a massive, ten-foot-high, chain-link gate. He slides it open and moti
ons for me to move to the driver’s seat. I unbuckle my seat belt and move over. Then realize there’s no way I can drive this thing.

  I gesture, palms up, and shake my head.

  He jogs back and sticks his head in the open window. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those wimpy girls who can’t handle a stick,” he teases.

  “You got me,” I admit. “Completely lame.” I start to move back to the passenger seat, but he reaches in and touches my shoulder. The warmth of his fingers spreads like an electric current through the fabric of my T-shirt.

  “It’s easy. I’ll teach you.” He leans in through the window until we’re almost cheek to cheek. He has an errant lock of hair that frequently falls over his forehead and frames his jaw. At this particular moment, he’s close enough for that chunk of hair to tickle my cheek. Goose bumps chase one another down my back and arms as his breath plays over my neck. His right arm slides around the back of my seat and I can barely breathe with him this close.

  Oh my god. He is seriously flirting with me.

  He reaches his left arm through the window and calmly points. “The pedal on the left is the clutch. It releases the gears. Press it all the way to the floor with your left foot.”

  With a robotic movement, I mash the pedal hard.

  “Keep your right foot on the brake, too,” he says quickly.

  I mash the brake, too.

  “Now, look at the diagram on the gearshift. Up and to the left is first. That’s all you need to get through the gate.”

  I put my hand over the gearshift and rock it lightly from side to side.

  “When you’re ready, push the clutch in and move the stick into first gear.”

  The clutch is in, but when I try to push the stick into gear it makes a horrible grinding noise. I stop and give Journey a worried look.

  “Push hard. As long as the clutch is in you won’t hurt anything.”

  I try again with a hard push and it drops into first with a thunk.

  “Great!” He almost cheers. I feel invincible. He pulls his head out of the window. “Okay. You’re good to go. Release the emergency brake and slowly ease your left foot off the clutch while, at the same time, pressing slowly down on the gas with your right foot.” He demonstrates with his hands—left up, right down. “Once you get through the gate just push in both the brake and clutch to stop.”

  Easy to say … but so hard to do. Not to mention that my insides are super thumpy because I don’t want to screw this up. I try, but just letting my foot off the clutch a tiny bit sends the van bucking forward. It shudders, wheezes, and gives a long drawn-out mechanical death rattle. The engine dies, leaving the van only halfway through the gate.

  Embarrassed, I flee the driver’s seat.

  Journey climbs into the van. “Not bad for your first attempt,” he says.

  He turns the key and the starter rrrrr-rrrrr-rrrrrs for a minute. He lets it rest and then tries again. The stubborn van doesn’t catch on the second, third, or even the fourth try. “This starting thing is getting worse,” Journey says. Finally, on the fifth try, it kicks over. He smiles at me. “Ready to try again?”

  Embarrassment creeps up my neck. “No freakin’ way.”

  “Okay.” He surrenders. “I won’t make you.”

  My cheeks blaze. My reaction might have been a little over the top.

  Journey drives through the gate, then stops and gets out to close it behind us. The clang of the massive gate being closed and locked in place clears the fizzy romantic notions from my brain. He might have been a little flirty with me, but we’re here for one reason and one reason only—to collect evidence.

  Journey climbs back in, puts the van in gear, and angles to the side of the creepy building, which is so huge that it blots out everything else, including the horizon.

  As we leave the asphalt parking area, Journey slows and drives us onto a flat area lined with old, wooden planks. It’s a bumpy ride. He flashes me one of his megawatt smiles. “Won’t be long now,” he promises, completing the drive around the building to the front, which faces the water. All I can think is Holy wow.

  The front of the old cannery building is still a mess and a half. But angled off to one side is a small cottage, shaded by a giant redwood and set in a tiny patch of grass and flowers. It’s quaint and charming and looks like something out of Snow White. Nestled here, in this setting, it’s breathtakingly beautiful.

  The cottage sits up on a slight slope, no more than twenty feet from the water’s edge. It’s a simple, two-story, Cape Cod design, white with deep red shutters and a rolled roof. The building looks stoic and strong. But the most amazing thing is its spectacular view of a lighthouse way in the distance. “Is that…?”

  “Yep, Cape Disappointment. It’s one of our most romantic landmarks. Our house was the guard shack for the cannery before my parents got ahold of it.”

  “I can’t believe you live here,” I say.

  “I call it Cape Disappointment, but my mother calls it Cape Can-do. Guess which one of us is the optimist?”

  “It’s lovely.” My fear melts away. “How could you be disappointed here?”

  “It beats calling it the Cape of Broken Dreams.” A hollow bitterness creeps into his voice. “Because that’s what this place is really: a pit for my family’s broken dreams. Miss P’s DNA experiment was my last shot to help my father. Not only did it not help him at all, but now I’m in almost the same trouble and I’ve lost Miss P. Like I said, just a giant heap of broken dreams.”

  All this time I’ve been wallowing in my own self-pity without giving a single thought to anyone else. Suddenly, I get it. This is why my Uncle Victor does what he does, because nothing soothes a grieving family member like information and facts.

  I turn sideways in my seat and lay my hand over his on the gearshift. It’s a bold move but I want him to feel the fierceness of my determination. The warmth of his skin surprises me, though, and I pull my hand back, folding it into my lap.

  “I promise you we will get through this. We will completely clear both of our names. And then I will help you find the evidence you need for your dad.”

  Journey takes my hand from my lap, cradling it in both of his. He leans toward me. I lean toward him, too. It’s like a magnet is pulling us together. I’m powerless to resist—not that I want to. It’s crazy, but the more he leans toward me, the more I want to melt into him.

  My vision turns bright, microscopic, illuminating things I’ve never noticed before, like the sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of his nose. His thick, strong eyebrows. When I see the tip of his tongue dart out and wet his upper lip, my eyes flutter closed. I’m almost certain that Journey Michaels—the boy I thought would never even know my name—is about to kiss me.

  18

  A latent fingerprint occurs when the body’s natural oils and sweat are deposited onto another surface … which could even include another body.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  It’s not that I’ve never kissed a boy before.

  I have. Many times.

  Well, okay, not many.

  Maybe a few.

  What I’ve never done is kiss the boy who puts my heart into a drum solo with just his smile; the boy who makes my knees tremble and my hands shake. Sure, I’ve fantasized about kissing Journey Michaels, but I never thought it would really happen. I definitely never pictured it here … like this. And yet, here we are. I swallow hard.

  My eyes flutter closed and my exposed heart dangles perilously. Then, just as there is the lightest brush of lips—before I can fully sink into the feeling—there’s a sudden loud splat. We jerk apart. I shriek. Journey cracks his elbow on the dash, cursing under his breath.

  I blink at the windshield.

  Why is there a large fish sliding down the glass? Its cold, round eye is frozen in a disapproving stare.

  “Holy— What the—?”

  “Damn bald eagles,” Journey says. “If you’re going to catch the stupid thing, eat it.” Journey opens
his door and stands on the running board. He grabs the fish by the tail and flings it toward the water. Then he sniffs his hands and wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

  I can imagine.

  He looks back at me from the doorway of the van, soft and a little wistful. We both know the moment has passed.

  “I have to wash the fish smell off of my hands.” There’s a tightness to his voice that wasn’t there before. “But first I’ll park down by all that crap in front of the cannery. The light’s better down there and we can use those pallets to stand on if we need to.”

  As he rumbles the van over the rough terrain, I take in the full spectacle of this location. A low stone wall and a ring of trees separates the two properties. The beauty of the cottage is a direct contrast to the decay of the cannery, which sprawls even farther down this finger of land to a rickety boat dock littered with pallets and rusted machinery.

  Journey eases the van between piles of junk into the spot with the best light.

  We both get out and I wait while he removes Vespy and sets her on the ground. As he walks back to his house to wash the fish yuck off his hands, I roll Vespy over to the wall and park her in the shade.

  First I’ll check for fingerprints, and then I’ll see what else I can find. I retrieve a pair of rubber gloves from my toolbox. Rachel buys them by the box for coloring her hair, so I always have an ample supply.

  My fingerprint kit resides in the small makeup pouch I carry with me at all times. This seems appropriate since my first kit actually was makeup: a blush brush, crushed smoky eye shadow, and teeth-whitening strips.

  I’m not the kind of girl to ever have a problem choosing evidence over white teeth and eyes that pop.

  I’ve since moved on to the real thing. My setup is ritual. Black fingerprint cards go in my back right pocket. Small packet of lifting strips, front left. The jar of red fluorescent fingerprint powder—which glows a neon red under ultraviolet light—gets tucked into my back left pocket. I usually slip the pen-sized ultraviolet flashlight into the front of my bra, but that feels too flirty to do in front of Journey. I stick it in my back pocket with the fingerprint powder. I’m just unpacking my fingerprint brush from its plastic sleeve when Journey slides up next to me.