The car he pointed to sat just a dozen yards beyond the entrance to the Antrims’ driveway. It was a dark green Honda Civic with Maine plates and an expired safety sticker. It had clearly seen years of use, with rust staining the undercarriage and more than a few dents in the driver’s door.
“We ran the plates, confirmed it’s registered to a James Creighton, Portland, Maine, but that address is no longer current. The landlord says Creighton got behind on his rent and had to be kicked out about four months ago. The fingerprints are a match, so we know it is him. We went through the vehicle, found a sleeping bag and pillow in the back seat, plus half a dozen empty bottles of coffee brandy. Looks like he was living in his car for some time.”
“Where’s his cell phone?”
“Didn’t find one.”
Jane frowned. “We’re pretty sure he had a burner phone.”
“No idea what happened to it. But you’ll be interested in what we did find.” He pulled out his cell phone and pulled up an image. “It’s at the state lab now. I took a photo because I figured you’d want to see it.”
Jane stared at the image on his phone. It was a hammer.
“Found it tucked under the carpet in the trunk, next to the spare tire. It’s not that unusual that he’d have a hammer, but you did ask about one.”
“Was there blood on it?”
“Not to my naked eye, but the crime lab just texted me. They found occult blood on the hammerhead.” The afternoon sun was now shining right into his eyes and he squinted against the glare. The harsh light brought out every wrinkle, every flaw on his face. “If it matches your victim in Boston, this might solve all your problems.”
“So it would seem.”
He regarded her for a moment. “The stalker’s dead, the ladies are safe. Yet you don’t look satisfied.”
She sighed, looked up at the trees. “I’d like to walk through the cabin again.”
“Sure. Crime scene unit’s already been through it, so be my guest. I’ve got to head back to town now. Any questions, just give me a call.”
Jane walked alone back down the driveway to the cabin. Stood outside for a moment in the yard, listening to the chirping of birds, the wind rustling the trees. Early this morning, she and Frost had interviewed Amy and Julianne about what happened here last night, and their statements played in her head as she again mounted the porch steps.
Amy: He came out of the woods—came straight toward me. I tried to close the door on him to keep him out, but he shoved his way inside. I knew he was going to kill me…
Julianne: I was down by the lake, looking at the water, and I heard her screaming. I heard my baby screaming and I just ran toward the cabin…
Jane stepped inside and stood in the kitchen, once again surveying the blood-splattered cabinets, the broken glass, the toppled chair. She turned to the countertop and stared at the butcher block knife holder. One of the slots was vacant. It was a wide slot, large enough to hold a chef’s knife.
Julianne: I ran into the kitchen. He was there with Amy and he had her shoved up against the wall with his hands around her throat. I did it without thinking. I did what any mother would do. I grabbed a knife from the counter…
The evidence of what happened next was splashed across the cabinets, smeared on the floor, and Jane could see it unfolding as if it were happening right here, right now. Julianne plunges the knife into the attacker’s back. Wounded and howling, he turns to face her. Lunges at her. In desperation she blindly slashes at him and the blade slices across his neck. This time the wound is mortal, but not immediately. He has enough strength to try and wrestle the knife away from her, and in the struggle, she cuts her hand. But now his vision is fading…
Blindly, he staggers into the hallway where he reaches out to steady himself, leaving his smeared handprint on the wall. By now he has lost so much blood that everything is starting to go dark. He stumbles into a bedroom—a dead end. And here his legs can carry him no further.
Jane halted, looking down at the spot where James Creighton’s body at last came to rest. Here he had taken his final breaths as the bleeding slowed to a trickle, as his heart stuttered and stopped.
Julianne: When I called 911, he was still alive. I’m sure he was. He never said anything. He never told us why he attacked. By the time the police arrived, he was dead, so we’ll never know why he chose Amy. Why he wouldn’t leave her alone…
Amy. Jane looked around the bedroom, at the lace curtains, the row of stuffed animals on the shelf. This must be Amy’s bedroom. After their terrifying night, she and her mother had been escorted back home to Boston and they’d left everything behind in the cabin. Amy’s empty suitcase was still in the closet and the dresser drawers contained her underwear and socks and T-shirts. Both their toothbrushes were still in the shared bathroom cabinet, along with a prescription bottle of Julianne’s high blood pressure pills and a box of Clairol hair color.