THE NEXT VICTIM
Elizabeth broke into a run. The car was coming. The engine noise grew stronger, and she imagined she could feel the heat of the motor. It approached in darkness, no headlights.
No longer caring how it would look, Elizabeth punched 911 on her cell phone and continued to run while holding it to her ear. Only it didn’t ring. She looked at the screen and saw zero coverage. She was in a dead zone.
The car rumbled closer. The edge of the park was coming. All she had to do was get past it and there’d probably be reception.
The car was at her back; then it pulled alongside her, moving so slowly that she knew the driver wanted her to know that she was being watched. She kept her focus ahead of her, blinking back tears and clutching the phone like a lifeline.
The car moved past, pausing at the corner before turning left and slipping away into the night. A half block. A quarter. The perimeter of the park was a stand of soaring pine trees. All she had to do was get past them and she’d probably have coverage. But getting past them meant landing on the street where the car had turned.
Something was wrong with the streetlight on that corner. It flickered on and off, on and off. As she approached it, the light went out again. She glanced at her phone. No coverage yet.
She didn’t see the gloved hand come out of the darkness until it settled on her wrist. The phone dropped, forgotten, onto the street. She screamed once before the other hand closed over her mouth…
Books by Rebecca Drake
DON’T BE AFRAID
THE NEXT KILLING
THE DEAD PLACE
Published by Pinnacle Books
THE DEAD PLACE
REBECCA DRAKE
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
For Margaret and Joseph
My ever-fixed mark
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
August
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
October
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
December
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m indebted to Sandy Stephen and Meryl Neiman, who helped plot this novel, and to Amy Moore-Benson, who helped put it to bed. Special thanks to Mary Weidner, Jane Lucchino, and Shelley Blumenfeld, for helping me understand the world of visual artists, and to Nathaniel Drake, for helping me understand the world of musicians. Wickfield is a fictional town, but influenced by places I’ve lived or visited, including the charming college towns of Bloomington, Indiana, and Swarthmore, Pennsylvania. My own interpretation of the funeral industry was influenced by the writing of Jessica Mitford and Thomas Lynch. Special thanks to The Six; you know who you are! Finally, always and forever, thanks to Joe.
Prologue
No one thinks of death on a sunny day. The sky was the rich, translucent blue of the Caribbean Sea, and Lily Slocum looked up into its warmth and closed her eyes for a moment, thinking how great it would be to go to the beach. She was four blocks from the university and six blocks from home and the messenger bag filled with textbooks was digging into her shoulder and rubbing against her hip.
She didn’t notice the car idling at the stop sign up ahead. She couldn’t see the driver looking in the rearview mirror and even if she could, she wouldn’t have thought it meant anything more than an admiring glance from a stranger.
Lily Slocum will be described as pretty. Reporters will list the description her roommate gave the police: white, medium height, wheat-blond hair worn long and pulled back in a ponytail, brown eyes. Last seen walking just past midday on Bates Street, brown T-shirt and tan shorts, orange messenger bag slung over her right shoulder, green flip-flops slapping the concrete under her feet.
No one will mention the car that drove slowly past before circling back to follow her. No one will be able to give a description of its make or model or speculate as to the identity of the driver. No one will notice.
Certainly not Lily, who thought she might actually tan on such a sunny day and checked her arms to see if they were getting any color, the tiny bells on her silver bracelet tinkling. A bracelet will be mentioned and her roommate
