GIRL NEXT DOOR: An edge of your seat - vicious serial killer thriller. (Jack Ryder Book 5) Read online

  “He must have escaped somehow,” I mumbled.

  I put my backpack down and put the envelope inside of it, to make sure nothing happened to it. Then I walked toward the dog in the neighbor's yard, hoping and praying they weren't home yet.

  Juanita put down her bike, and we approached the dog together. Dylan started growling as he saw us come closer.

  “Dylan,” I said, harshly. I needed to show it who was boss, my dad always said. “Come here!”

  But the dog didn't budge. It walked across the grass and then squatted and relieved itself again, this time in a more solid manner.

  “Eeeww,” Juanita said, while I sighed, annoyed. I knew that I would have to pick it up before the neighbors came home. The neighbors hated our dog and always complained that it barked at night.

  “Come here, Dylan; you're coming home with me now,” I said and walked closer to the dog. I grabbed it by its collar and pulled it off the Hansons’ lawn. Juanita came up to me, and Dylan let out a low growl when he saw her. I pulled the collar again to make it stop, but that just made the dog snap at her and Juanita pulled back with a light gasp.

  “I'm sorry,” I said. “This dog is impossible. He doesn’t like strangers.”

  “It's okay,” Juanita said and backed up a few steps further. “I just wanted to help.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’ve got him now. I'll take him home. He's lucky my dad won't be home till later or else he would face a bad beating. He knows he's not allowed outside on his own.”

  Juanita nodded. “Okay. Guess I'll see you tomorrow then?”

  I forced a smile. “Sure.”

  I watched Juanita grab her bike, then send me a soft smile before taking off toward her own house. As I watched her ride off, I wondered if things had been different if I would be able to like her back. She was ever so cute, and I really liked her eyes.

  In another place in time.

  “Come on, Dylan. Let's get you back inside the house before anyone complains. How did you escape anyway, huh? Maybe we should rename you the Great Houdini? Would you like th…?”

  I suddenly stopped talking. As I looked at my house, I realized the dog escaping wasn't the only thing odd on this crisp afternoon.

  The garage door was left open, and my mom's car was gone. To most people, that wouldn't be alarming, but to me it most certainly was. My mother was always home to greet my siblings and me when we came home from school.

  Always.

  February 1974

  The first thing I noticed when stepping into the kitchen was a half-made peanut butter sandwich sitting on the counter next to an empty lunch box with my younger sister's name on the side.

  Baffled, I let go of Dylan and walked to the counter. The bread had gone hard on the edges, and the peanut butter that was only half spread on one side had dried up and sat in lumps. The knife was on the counter, still smeared in the brown substance that my sister loved so much, but I never took a liking to. It all gets a little blurry from there on, but I remember that I stared at the knife, dumbfounded, not sure what to believe. My heart rate was going up rapidly. My mom had clearly been making lunches for my siblings, but why hadn't she finished? Had something happened?

  “Mom?” I called out. I could hear my voice quivering as the sound was returned to me as an echo.

  “Mom?” I tried again, slightly shrill and anxiously.

  But there was no answer. Why was there no answer? My mom always answered when I called. You have to understand. She was always there.

  Always.

  “MO-OM!”

  I felt how my legs went soft and wobbly beneath me as fear set in. Desperately, I walked to the stairs, called my mother's name, then my siblings' one by one, and then my father's, even though I knew there was no way he was home already.

  But the thing was, his car had been in the garage, not my mother's.

  I wondered. Was something wrong with my dad's car? Had he maybe taken her car instead? Could it be as simple as that?

  “Dad?” I almost screamed.

  And that was when I saw the blood. There was blood on the floor and up the stairs. I stared at it, my hands beginning to shake, while the dog took off. It sprinted up the stairs like someone had told it to go find a treat up there somewhere.

  I followed. I walked up the steps, my legs heavy and my hands trembling. As I reached the top of the stairs, I heard my dog whimpering, half growling. I then rushed into my parents’ bedroom. In there, I first spotted Dylan on the bed; then I saw what the dog had in his mouth. He was pulling at it. The sight made me want to scream.

  It was my mother's arm.

  “DYLAN!” I yelled, then rushed to get the dog away from my mother, who was lying on the mattress. The dog let go, then backed up while I walked closer to better see what was wrong with my mother.

  I stared at the face behind the plastic bag, and the first thing I noticed was that it wasn't moving. The bag remained completely still, as were my mother's eyes.

  I turned my head and spotted my father's body on the carpet behind the bed. It was lying there just as still as my mother's, a belt wrapped around his throat, his face bloated and grotesquely swollen. Both of them had been bound with thin cords at the wrists and ankles.

  I wanted to move. I wanted to do something, to pull the darn bag off my mother's head, but I couldn't. I was frozen in place. It was like I was trapped in a nightmare, but no matter how hard I tried to wake up, it didn't happen. I wanted to scream, to yell at my mother to get up, to take the bag off and stop playing games, that it wasn't funny, it was some cruel, cruel joke. I wanted to call to my dad to rise to his feet and stand up straight. But no sound left my lips. No part of my body would obey. Fear had me fixed to the ground. I couldn't move.

  Not until I heard a noise. It was coming from my brother's bedroom next door. I stopped breathing as I realized that someone was in the house.

  February 1974

  My pulse was like a heavy drum in my ears, drowning out everything else. I stormed out of the bedroom and slipped as I headed for the stairs. The perpetrator was coming up behind me. I grabbed the railing and rushed down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Behind me, I could hear the perpetrator. I could hear the breathing, and I was certain I could even hear laughter.

  Get to the door, Steve, I remember thinking. Just get out into the street and scream for help. Juanita might still be out there, or someone else.

  The perpetrator behind me was closing in. I raced down the stairs, hearing the heavy breathing behind me as the person closed the gap, reached out a hand, and grabbed me by the hoodie. I was forcefully jerked backward, and the air was pushed out of my throat. I landed with my back against the steps and heard the sound of something cracking, followed by pain. As I lay there screaming, I opened my eyes and looked into those of the person holding me down. The face was covered with a doll's mask, picturing a woman with rosy red lips, light pink skin, and black painted eyebrows. The mask had deep holes where the eyes peeked out. Big steel grey eyes.

  Like those of a wolf.

  I screamed again as a fist was raised and slammed down on my face, each punch followed by a deep laugh.

  “HEEELP!”

  More punches fell, and soon I tasted blood in my mouth and my vision became blurred. I felt dizzy and could barely stay conscious. The blows stopped, and I felt myself being dragged up the stairs, the back of my head bumping onto each step, causing the pain in my back to flare up, but having no strength to scream or even moan anymore. The bumping continued till it suddenly stopped and everything went quiet for a little while. The next thing I heard was the sound of something coming closer and, as I opened my eyes again and watched through patches of blood, I realized I was now looking out through a plastic bag.

  Oh, dear God, no!

  I tried to move, to fight the man off as he closed the bag using a cord around my throat. The bag moved back and forth against my skin as I fought to breathe. The inside of it soon turned foggy while I felt the perpet
rator fumbling behind me, trying to tie up my arms. It was through that fog that I spotted another set of eyes staring back at me. The very familiar brown eyes of my dog.

  Dylan!

  I had no air to scream at the dog, and there was no need for it. The black Doberman exposed his teeth, let out a loud snarl, then went directly for the perpetrator's thigh. I could hear as the teeth went through the jeans and sunk into the skin and I could have sworn I even heard the bone crushing as the dog bit down. The perpetrator let out a loud roar and turned to hit the dog, but Dylan didn't move an inch. While I reached up my hands to pull off the plastic bag and dash for the stairs, Dylan held onto the thigh with all the strength he had in him, and as I raced for the door, reaching out for the door handle, I knew I would be forever indebted to the darn dog.

  Behind me, I heard the dog whimper loudly, and then followed the sound of fast moving steps on the stairs. Realizing the perpetrator had somehow fought off Dylan, I was spurred into motion. I sprang into the driveway, gravel skidding beneath my feet. Screaming for help, I ran into the street, tripped on a lawn sprinkler and landed in the grass, face first, having the air knocked out of me. Behind me, the door was yanked open. I scrambled to my feet and turned my head with a gasp. My eyes searched frantically behind me and met the steel grey ones behind the mask before I ran into the street, screaming for help. The sound of feet behind me on the asphalt made me run even faster down the street till I reached the river and plunged into the brown water. Luckily, I am an excellent swimmer, and I stayed under the murky water for as long as I could without breathing, then swam for the dock at the Williams’ house. I swam underneath it, grabbed onto the wood, and stayed like that for hours, continually staring at the water behind me, wondering if the perpetrator had taken up the chase and plunged into the water as well. I was just waiting for that doll mask to appear out of the murky water.

  It was dark before I dared to climb up onto the dock and run into the Williams’ backyard and knock on their sliding doors. The rest of the story, you know."

  Steve stopped talking and exhaled deeply, feeling how his mouth had grown dry. He wiped a couple of tears from his cheeks and held onto the table to stop his hands from shaking.

  The man in front of Steve nodded. He wrote a few words on his pad, then looked up at him. Steve took a sip of water and swallowed. The man took off his glasses and put them on the table in front of him. He grabbed the recorder on the table and turned it off.

  "Thank you, Steve. I think I have what I need."

  Steve sighed. Telling his story always drained him. It didn't matter if it was the police, a psychologist, or journalists who asked him to. It was so painful to go back there again and again.

  "So, when will it be in the paper?" he asked.

  "Tomorrow. It's our front-cover story."

  Steve nodded, tired. He was about to start crying again but held it back. He was getting quite good at that. He couldn't allow himself to get carried away. Crying wouldn't get him anywhere.

  "Good," he said with a sniffle. "I just want the world to know what this bastard has done and warn anyone else to be careful."

  "I know you do. And we appreciate it greatly. You are very brave to come forward like this and I know it hurts terribly to tell your story, but you did a great job."

  Steve exhaled. "Maybe this way the monster will get caught and people can get back to sleeping peacefully again. That's all I can pray for. I just want justice for my family. I want this sick killer to get caught."

  The journalist rose to his feet and gathered his things. He reached out his hand and shook Steve's.

  "That's what I pray for too."

  Part I

  1

  August 2018

  It was a busy street, yet no one saw the young boy as he leaped into it. Maybe it was because they didn't expect a young boy to run into A1A like that during rush-hour, without looking for cars. Or perhaps they were just too busy to notice, going to their jobs or other destinations only the drivers themselves knew.

  A woman did see him, though. Old Mrs. McMullen was standing on the other side of the four-lane road, where the car rushed past at forty-five miles an hour, while most of them were going fifty-five. She was out walking her dog, her four-month-old Standard Schnauzer, Fluffy, that her son-in-law had gotten for her, picked up at some breeder half an hour from where she lived in her beachside community. Fluffy didn't see anything and, at first, old Mrs. McMullen believed she had to be mistaken, that she was imagining things, maybe seeing things that weren't even there. It wasn't the first time, you know. She was suffering from worsening Alzheimer's that made her forget and sometimes even see things that weren't really there. At least, that's what her children told her.

  Mrs. McMullen blinked a few times, but the boy was still there in the middle of the road, zigzagging between the cars, not looking where he was going.

  Old Mrs. McMullen shouted. A loud piercing cry, but it was completely drowned out by the roars coming from the cars.

  The boy ran between the cars like he was confused where to go, but also like he didn't even realize where he was, and they missed him by a hair, much to the old woman's relief.

  But then he stopped.

  The boy stood in the middle of the road and, right before the car hit him, he turned his face toward Mrs. McMullen like had he finally heard her screams, and their eyes met.

  It was a moment she was certain not even the Alzheimer's would be able to erase from her mind.

  2

  August 2018

  The Weasel walked through the police tape when Sergeant Mike Wagner approached her. The house in front of her was a typical old Cocoa Beach beach-house. Three bedrooms, two and a half baths. Small kitchen, small backyard with a shed—probably used for surfboards—and a hammock between the palm trees.

  "So, what are we looking at?" she asked. They had briefed her on the phone, but she needed to hear it one more time. With more details.

  "Double homicide. A woman in her mid-thirties and her daughter, eleven years old."

  "And they're related to the boy?" she asked and walked to the front door, putting on gloves that Mike handed her. The forensics team hadn't arrived yet, and she had to be very careful not to contaminate the scene.

  "Yes. They’re his mom and sister," Mike said.

  Weasel walked into the living room where the body of the mother lay on the floor. Her eyes were wide open on the severed head that lay inches from the body. Her hands and feet were tied with cords. The Weasel drew in a deep breath, then nodded.

  They had received the call this morning about a fifteen-year-old boy, Parker Reynolds, who had run into A1A in the middle of rush hour traffic and then gotten himself hit by a car. He was then slung through the air and hit by another car before they finally managed to stop. The scene had been a mess, but the boy was still alive. Barely, though. He was now in the hospital in Cape Canaveral, where they were fighting for his life. As soon as they had identified the boy, her officers had set out to notify the family, but as they arrived, they had found the mother and sister dead.

  "And the husband?"

  "Not in the picture as far as we know," Mike said. "They're separated. He lives down in Palm Bay. He's been notified and is on his way here."

  "That should give us a quick ID, then. Where's the girl?"

  "The bedroom. In the back."

  Weasel nodded and walked down the hallway. Pictures of the girl and her brother hung on the wall from when they were just young children. Next to the bathroom were pencil marks on the wall with their different heights next to dates and years.

  Not gonna be any more of those, Weasel thought to herself morbidly.

  "In here?" she asked and pointed at the door with the many KEEP OUT and KNOCK FIRST signs. Mike nodded.

  Weasel stepped inside, then gasped. Tears appeared in her eyes, but she didn't give into them. Her heart pounded in her chest as she stared at the lifeless girl dangling from the ceiling above her bed, her face barely visib
le behind the plastic bag. On the floor stood a backpack next to her lunch bag. She had been getting ready to go to school. Mike came up behind her.

  "He used her own belt to hang her with."

  Weasel swallowed the lump in her throat. "I see."

  Mike stood next to her, and she fought to hold back tears. As the head of the police department, she couldn't show emotions in a situation like this.

  "So, what do we do next?" Mike asked.

  "I guess we call in Ryder," she said. "He'll know how to handle this. If anyone can, it's him."

  3

  August 2018

  "Here you go. The house is all yours."

  Mary Hass, the realtor who had been helping Diane find a new place to live, dangled the keys in front of Diane's face. Diane grabbed them with a happy chuckle. They were standing on the porch of the small bungalow style white painted beach house in North Cocoa Beach.

  Diane lifted her head but remained silent.

  "What?" Mary said. "You're not going inside?"

  "I’m just listening," Diane said. "I can hear the ocean."

  "It is literally just one block away," Mary said. "Imagine going down there every morning for a quick swim or after work when you're all sweaty and gross. Nothing beats the ocean."

  Diane took in a deep breath and smelled the fresh air being brought to her porch by the breeze coming from the ocean. It smelled divine.

  "Thank you," she said. "Without you, I would never have found this little pearl of a house."

  "You were lucky," Mary said and looked at her phone. "No one gets a house for that price around here. A condo maybe. But not a three-bedroom three bath, no way."

  "Guess luck is finally smiling on me," Diane mumbled.

  Mary was still looking at her phone, her finger sliding across the screen. "Yes, well. Congratulations. Enjoy your new house." She lifted her phone up, then took a selfie with Diane. "For the Facebook page," she said and tapped on the screen afterward. "We like to do a little post every time we make a deal. You know, to show business is booming and all that."