Killing Spree Read Free Page A

the farther she moved away from the bookstore. It was also darker at this end of the lot. The opening in the line of trees was just ahead.
    Gillian thought she heard something behind her—a clicking noise or footsteps. She looked over her shoulder, and didn’t see anyone. One of the floodlights above was sputtering. Maybe that was what made the strange noise.
    As she turned around again, Gillian saw a minivan slowly pull into the lot. Its headlights swept across her, blinding her for a moment. The vehicle headed toward the bookstore, but then it pulled a U-turn. Once again, those headlights were in her eyes.
    Then they went off.
    The minivan pulled up alongside her. Gillian veered away from it, and picked up her pace. But she didn’t break into a run. She didn’t want them to think she was scared. There was no one else around. She couldn’t see the driver—or anyone inside the car. But the way the minivan inched alongside her, she could tell the driver was looking at her.
    Gillian carried a little canister of pepper spray in her purse, but it always took forever to find anything in that satchel. With a shaky hand, she frantically dug into the bag and groped around for the pepper spray. She kept walking toward that opening in the trees, and pretended to ignore the minivan just a few feet away from her. She could hear traffic noise on the other side of the trees up ahead. But would anyone hear her if she screamed?
    The minivan picked up speed, then stopped between her and the trees at the edge of the lot.
    Gillian stopped too. Suddenly, she couldn’t move. Her feet froze up and became rooted to the pavement. She stared at the driver’s door as it opened.
    A tall, gangly man climbed out of the front. The baseball cap he wore cast a shadow over most of his face, so all she could see was his unshaven jaw and a crooked smile. His denim jacket was slightly askew; he had his right arm in the sleeve and the other in a cast. The left side of the jacket was draped over his shoulder, half-covering the bandaged arm.
    Gillian thought about Ted Bundy. That was one of his ploys. He sometimes approached his victims with one arm in a cast—and a friendly smile.
    Gillian kept searching for the pepper spray in her purse. It was too dark to see anything in the bag, and when she looked up, he was coming toward her. She backed away.
    “Pardon me,” the man called. “Mind if I talk to you for a minute?”
    Staring at the man, Gillian took another step back. She thought she felt the pepper spray canister at the bottom of her bag.
    “Aren’t you Gillian McBride, the author?”
    She said nothing.
    “I recognized you. Is it too late for an autograph?” He hoisted his bandaged arm. “Think you might sign my cast?”
    Gillian hesitated. She heard another door click open, and she glanced over at the minivan. A young girl—about twelve, with a ski jacket and her hair in pigtails—jumped out of the passenger side. “Is it her, Dad?”
    Gillian let out a little sigh. As the girl came up to her father’s side, Gillian noticed a well-worn copy of Black Ribbons in her hand.
    “The wife is a big fan of yours,” the man explained. “She’s home with the flu, otherwise she’d be here. You really scared her with this new book.”
    A hand over her heart, Gillian cracked a smile. “Well, tell your wife you got even with me tonight.”
    Gillian autographed the book for the man’s wife, and signed his cast too. Rolling up her coat sleeve, the daughter asked Gillian to autograph her arm. Gillian complied. She talked with them for a few minutes. The man asked if she needed a ride someplace. Gillian lied and said she was fine. As the man and his daughter pulled away in the minivan, Gillian waved. And when she was sure they could no longer see her, she started to cry.
    Those few moments with that man and his daughter had made her feel important. Maybe the long bus trip here was worth it after all. So why was she crying?
    She’d been doing that a