Almost Dead (Lizzy Gardner #5)(24)

The jurors took less than an hour to come to the conclusion that he was guilty and should be locked up. They gave him ten years without parole. And they didn’t even know about the first two chicks he’d killed. The woman he’d thought he’d killed had told such a titillating story, word got around fast that, as far as rapists went, he was about as bad as they got.

It made no sense. He was put away for what? He didn’t even kill the bitch!

But that was nothing. Next thing he knew, rumors were flying and every dead body that floated to the surface of a lake or body of water was being attributed to him. He was being called “Spiderman,” a serial killer everyone was in a lather about.

Prior to Frank’s incarceration, at least four young girls had been abducted and murdered, their bodies left in various locations throughout Sacramento. Each child was held captive for months before being killed. The string of deaths had triggered a murder investigation, one of the largest in the history of the state. Hysteria reigned. Parents stopped dropping off their children at bus stops. Young people were afraid to walk outside without an escort. Playgrounds were empty.

Until somebody got the bright idea to hang the crimes on mad rapist Frank Lyle, since he was handy.

At first he didn’t like the crush of attention being thrown his way. Suddenly, everybody wanted to interview Frank Lyle. But as it snowballed, it started growing on him. He was a celebrity, even wound up on the cover of Time and People. For the first time in his life, he was somebody. Everyone knew his name. Everyone wanted to talk to him. His face was all over the news. Over the next decade, Frank aspired to have his image on serial-murder trading cards, comic books, T-shirts, and calendars. Book deals were in the talks—even a f*cking movie!

And then, poof! Lizzy Gardner came onto the scene and told the media that Frank Lyle was merely a wannabe and a copycat. After that, every doctor in California was saying that he had a pathological need for notoriety and that he was delusional.

He passed the damn polygraph. Didn’t that mean anything?

Saying he bore a grudge would be downplaying his feelings toward Lizzy Gardner. He resented her. Hated her. Abhorred her. For the first time in his life, he’d had an identity . . . He’d been somebody. And she took it all away.

As it turned out, the real Spiderman had indeed come back to town to take care of unfinished business. But Lizzy Gardner proved resilient and took care of Spiderman once and for all.

Having served his time, Frank was promptly released. With his newfound anonymity, he quickly became unrecognizable. People didn’t look twice when he walked by. His book deal had crashed and burned. Nobody cared what he did or where he went.

He was back to being what he’d always been—a nobody.

But not for long.

As he planned and plotted, he felt a stirring of excitement building within. He felt alive again. He’d risen from the dead, and this time he would make them all pay. Nobody was safe. Not the granny walking less than a block from the bus stop. Not the jogger on American River trail or the speed-walker taking a quick break from work. Over the years he’d been watching, learning. Random acts of killing kept the police in the dark. And nobody liked the dark better than Frank Lyle.





CHAPTER 17

Jenny Pickett looked around her old bedroom at her parents’ farmhouse. The yellow walls were faded and chipped. Every time she came home, the room appeared so much smaller than she remembered. The mirror her mother had made for her when she was little, framed with wood and feathers and lots of glue, still hung above a three-legged dresser.

The mirror had been purposely cracked because at the time her mother thought that would give it a unique, vintage look, but what it did instead was freakishly distort the reflection of anyone who looked into it. Jenny had always hated the thing, thought it was the ugliest gift any parent could bestow upon their only child, but looking at it now, with new eyes, she thought differently.

Turning, she viewed her profile. Her shoulders were no longer hunched over. When had that changed?

Facing her reflection straight on, she leaned forward, peered into the broken pieces of mirror, and smiled. Even the cracks couldn’t hide a straight white smile and killer eyes. Pun intended. She smiled at her own wittiness. The pitiful farm girl was transforming, growing more confident with every passing day.

You’re not the fairest of them all. You came here for a reason. Now get busy.

She made her way down the hallway, the wood floors creaking and shifting beneath her feet. In the kitchen, Mom stood at the stove, using a wooden spoon to stir all the leftovers from their meal in a giant banged-up pot. Leftover stew. Mom had been making it for as long as Jenny could remember. Only one burner on the stove worked, but somehow Mom had managed to cook a lot of meals.

The blue curtains framing the small window above the sink, the scarred trestle table, and the mismatched slat-back chairs—everything was the same. Nothing had changed.

A sigh escaped as she watched her parents for a moment longer. Mom had never been considered a good cook, but whatever she served up on any given day always did take care of the hunger pains.

Don’t forget how many times you got food poisoning. You’ll be sick by midnight, guaranteed.

Dad was sitting at the table, fiddling with his napkin. He wasn’t all there these days, but he still had random moments of clarity. Mom had been forty-five when she’d given birth to Jenny in the back room of this very house. Dad had been fifty. Now he was eighty and sliding downhill fast.