Not Like He Seemed (An Ilse Beck FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 2)

By Ava Strong

The FBI desperately needs Ilse’s help to catch the “Alphabet Killer”—an unhinged serial killer who seems to be arranging his victims’ bodies in the shapes of letters. Is he spelling a word? Or hinting at who will be next?

In this bestselling mystery series, FBI Special Agent Ilse Beck, victim of a traumatic childhood in Germany, moved to the U.S. to become a renowned psychologist specializing in PTSD, and the world’s leading expert in the unique trauma of serial-killer survivors. By studying the psychology of their survivors, Ilse has a unique and unparalleled expertise in the true psychology of serial killers. Ilse never expected, though, to become an FBI agent herself.

Ilse, plagued by her own past, realizes the time has come to face her demons and revisit the site of her childhood home in Germany. But will the trip help her expunge her own dark memories—or push her over the edge?

But in a frantic race against time, the FBI needs her to decode the Alphabet Killer. Is there a method to his madness, a way to stop the next victim before it’s too late?

Or is this killer far more cunning and deranged than anyone could imagine?

A dark and suspenseful crime thriller, the bestselling ILSE BECK series is a breathtaking page-turner, an unputdownable mystery and suspense novel. A compelling and perplexing psychological thriller, rife with twists and jaw-dropping secrets, it will make you fall in love with a brilliant new female protagonist, while it keeps you shocked late into the night.

NOT LIKE HE SEEMED (An Ilse Beck FBI Suspense Thriller) is book #2 in a new series by mystery and suspense author Ava Strong. Books #3 and #4 in the series—NOT LIKE YESTERDAY and NOT LIKE THIS—are also available.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ava Strong
• Release date: Sep 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781094373980

Book preview

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n o t   l i k e   h e   s e e m e d

(an ilse beck fbi suspense thriller—book 2)

a v a   s t r o n g

Ava Strong

Debut author Ava Strong is author of the REMI LAURENT mystery series, comprising three books (and counting); of the ILSE BECK mystery series, comprising four books (and counting); and of the STELLA FALL psychological suspense thriller series, comprising three books (and counting).

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Ava loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.avastrongauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2021 by Ava Strong. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Mimadeo, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

BOOKS BY AVA STRONG

REMI LAURENT FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

THE DEATH CODE (Book #1)

THE MURDER CODE (Book #2)

THE MALICE CODE (Book #3)

ILSE BECK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOT LIKE US (Book #1)

NOT LIKE HE SEEMED (Book #2)

NOT LIKE YESTERDAY (Book #3)

NOT LIKE THIS (Book #4)

STELLA FALL PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER

HIS OTHER WIFE (Book #1)

HIS OTHER LIE (Book #2)

HIS OTHER SECRET (Book #3)

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

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 ONE

Raindrops pattered against the half-open window, and Arthur Hubbard watched droplets fleck through the screen across the peeling windowsill. He reclined in his padded office chair, feet on his faux oak desk as he tracked the trail of water now spilling down the wall and pooling on the dusty tiled ground.

The paint beneath the windowsill was already cracked and warped. Maintenance had promised to fix the window three weeks ago but, so far, he'd seen neither hide nor tail.

Art grunted, shifting a bit and causing his chair to squeak. He gave a lethargic kick towards the mop bucket they'd provided. The plastic lip pressed against a puffed portion of warped paint, but the water just trickled around this, still pooling on the ground.

Seems about right, he muttered, listening to the rain. Just two years left... He murmured to himself. Two years...

Retirement now dangled before him like a carrot on a very short stick. High school teachers in Eugene, Oregon, didn't have much else to look forward to in Arthur's opinion. He reached up, dusting some everything bagel crumbs from his unbuttoned collared shirt, and then, shifting his girth, he wheezed and turned back to his computer, away from the offending window.

His eyes traced the buzzing screen, but it was starting to give him a headache. All this infernal damn technology. Things weren't like they used to be back in the old days. Thirty years now, stuck in the same job, and they couldn't fix a stinking window.

He glanced towards the analog Daffy Duck clock on his wall—a gift from his niece. Nearly ten PM.

Late. Always late. He glanced at the computer screen again, his eyes glazing over as he tried to re-read another page of an essay. Not a single paragraph break in the damn thing. Two of the sentences had punctuation three font sizes larger than the rest of the document. He'd also checked the spaces between the words: double. Kids these days thought they were clever. But really, teachers just couldn't be bothered to call them on their shit half the time.

He sighed, clicked down to the bottom of the three-page paragraph camouflaged as a five-page essay, and typed in red letters, Grade: C. Solid stuff, John—keep an eye on those paragraphs!

He glanced at the clock. 10:02.

Time to get home. The rest of the papers would have to wait. He clicked off his computer and reached for his laptop bag. At that moment, though, he frowned, hearing a soft squeak. His chair again?

He wiggled his hips, and the chair gave another squeak. The tapping raindrops through the window had now reached something of a crescendo. A flash of lightning streaked the sky outside, and moments later, thunder rumbled.

Slowly, he arose from his chair.

He heard another squeak, like a rubber sole against tiled floor.

He turned sharply, glancing over his shoulder towards his open office door. Hello? Art called out into the hallway. Anyone there? He frowned now, turning slowly and feeling a crick in his back.

Damn chairs without lumbar support... damn rain... damn windows...

He stared towards the gaping doorway, peering out into the dark hall. His vision struggled to adjust following a five-hour session sitting in front of blue light. But as he stared at the hall, he heard another sound... footsteps.

Hello? he called, louder now. Gabby, is that you? Ross?

No reply.

Ross—I thought you left for the night! he called, taking a tentative step towards the door. Even the janitors got out before he did.

But again, no reply.

Now, no longer startled, Arthur could feel his bad mood returning. He glanced towards the Daffy Duck clock, and then, eyes narrowed, he reached down and hefted his briefcase. With one hand on his twinging back, he moved towards the door. The sound of the raindrops missing the mop bucket behind him only further increased his irritation.

No one is supposed to be here after hours, he called, his tone hardening. Students, probably. On a dare. Damn kids. Couldn't even leave him in peace at night. He reached the door, pausing for a moment as the sound of footsteps continued. Only two more years... he muttered to himself, picturing sunny Florida beaches and Mrs. Hubbard in that sexy little one piece she wore.

There was something off about the footsteps, though. As he'd called out, they hadn't picked up pace. Students, normally, when caught would flee or blubber.

But these footsteps weren't retreating, and no voice was forthcoming. Just a steady tap of rubber soles against tiled ground.

H-hello? he stammered, a slow chill suddenly spreading up his spine. Ross?

Then, at last, he heard a voice. It didn't speak, but it started whistling. A quiet, humming tune like Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Or perhaps The ABC Song.

The sound drew nearer, then nearer still.

For a brief second, as Arthur Hubbard stood in the doorway, he reconsidered his approach. One hand moved hesitantly towards his door handle. Perhaps he'd best call security, or even the police. Something was off here.

The whistling drew nearer, along with the steady rhythmic trot of the footsteps. Now, the horrifying chill up his spine even overshadowed his twinging back pain.

H-hello, he said, a squeak in his voice all of a sudden.

The footsteps stopped. The whistling ceased.

All he could hear now was the tap of raindrops behind him. A flash of lightning illuminated the room. But the thunder never came.

Or, at least, he never heard it.

No whistling, no steps... Had someone stopped right outside his door? Was that breathing he could hear on the other side of the wall? Ross? he whispered.

Mr. Hubbard swallowed, feeling the prickle along his back; should he check the hall?

Something in him, some deep instinct born from thirty years of interacting with rooms full of mischief-makers told him to slam the door and lock it. But while his instincts were still on point, his arthritis offered other suggestions.

His fingers tremored as he reached for the door handle, prepared to swing it shut.

Then, a sudden blur swished around the doorframe, lunging at him. Arthur yelled and was sent tumbling back, toppling over his chair and striking the red bucket. His shoulders hit the wet floor, and his back jolted with pain.

He felt more raindrops against his cheeks, against his face. His eyelashes fluttered and a groan escaped his lips.

Then, the shadow from earlier approached him, looming for a second. The face was fuzzy thanks to the raindrops and Arthur's pounding head. He groaned, trying to sit up, but the person extended a foot, pressing it gently against Arthur's chest. 

Arthur gasped, trying to breathe, spluttering as he did. Get off me! he groaned. Get off!

The whistling started again... The same tune of A...B...C...D... Twinkle, twinkle, little star... The form above him turned, slowly. Not to walk away, though. Instead, he positioned himself, then slowly lowered, sitting on Arthur's chest and trapping the older teacher's arms.

Arthur groaned, trying to sit up. But in his wife's words, he had the arms of a thinking man. He'd never so much as lifted a weight in his life. Now, his arms were trapped, and his legs too. He began kicking, desperately.

Who was this? A student? One of the janitors? Some sort of sick prank? Why was this person sitting on his chest? He could barely breathe.

I—I can't, he tried to protest, wheezing now.

And then, he watched something slip from his attacker's waistband. A gloved hand emerged, holding something glinting and thick.

Another flash of lightning and Arthur's chest flooded with horror.

His attacker was carrying a hacksaw.

A...B...C...D... Still whistling that same cheerful tune, without so much as a word, the fellow on his chest moved the saw out of sight. He was sitting facing Mr. Hubbard's legs.

Arthur continued gasping, wheezing, blinded by raindrops, shoulders soaked now, head pulsing. The lightning was gone, and with it came only darkness.

CHAPTER TWO

The spruce trees and low hanging boughs welcomed Ilse Beck back into familiar territory. Sunlight glimmered through the windshield, illuminating the one-buck McDonald’s coffee in its cup holder. Ahead, as the road dipped, a familiar low-hanging mist hovered against a backdrop of unrelenting green and brown foliage. The air through the cracked window of the rental car brought to mind images of badgers in burrow, squirrels scampering from branches, and sparrows fluttering their wings as they flitted from tree to tree.

Ilse wanted to smile... But a tremoring hand left the steering wheel, reaching up to brush her dark hair in front of her maimed ear.

Everything about the Black Forest in Germany seemed familiar. Not just because she'd grown up here, but because her new home, outside Seattle in Washington State seemed a near carbon copy of the rolling hills, deep forests, and misty roads.

One could never quite leave their past behind them. And yet, now returned to her own stomping grounds, Ilse was reminded of just how much of her past she'd managed to transpose to her new life in America.

Brown hair. Brown eyes. Forty-two. Bundy. Thirty victims. November twenty-fourth. Forty-six. she murmured beneath her breath, using the memory trick to try and calm her nerves.

The rental she'd taken direct from the airport dipped over the hill, sending bits of weathered asphalt skittering off to the shoulder. A ping suggested one of the rocks had struck the metal rail overlooking a short drop towards a winding creak.

Ahead, as she dipped down the road, her eyes settled on the true reason for crossing the North Atlantic.

Freiburg.

Small, quaint homes and shops looked exactly as they had decades ago. The same sort of Bavarian architecture with naked oak balconies and anachronistic Waelderhaus designs that were not dissimilar to the Washington town of Leavenworth she'd settled near. So many threads, all of them connected.

Her eyes strained through the windshield, and she clicked the wipers, swiping a layer of fog free so she could see more clearly.

Schizotypal personality disorder. Borderline personality disorder. Psychotic disorder. Dahmer. Blonde hair. Ninety-four. Seventeen victims. May twenty-first, she murmured, faster now. Her eyes darted towards the small digital clock on her dash. Only 1:02.

Two minutes late. She'd intended to arrive right at 1:00 PM, exactly. A slow flicker of anxiety filled her chest. If she'd been two minutes early, she simply would have pulled to the side of the road and waited before proceeding into Freiburg.

But now... Two minutes late.

She'd been late before. Being late bothered her more than almost anything.

Ilse bit her lip, allowing the pain to jar her senses. Her eyes trailed from one building to the next as she pulled through the small town. The same town where the park ranged who'd found her all those years ago had brought her.

Her mind flashed... She pictured a shuttered window. Remembered the sound of hurried voices and panicked words. Felt hands at her back, pushing, pushing... And then, the sound of rapid footfalls as she escaped up the dusty road, fleeing...

Run, run, run... Her siblings had demanded that she run, and so she had.

Ilse shuddered, reaching up and pressing a finger to her maimed ear. Just then, a car pulled out of the parking spot next to her. Ilse yelped, slamming on her brakes and jolting forward, her head nearly ricocheting off the steering wheel.

She froze, breathing heavily and watching as an older woman with severe features peered into her rearview mirror, scowling at Ilse.

Dr. Beck raised an apologetic hand, still breathing heavily and watching as the old, silver Volkswagen pulled from the curb and began to meander up the road. The old lady had been patronizing Schultz Appliance.

Ilse frowned towards the double, square-framed windows. A small, brass bell hung on the outside of the door, beneath a green and blue awning. She stared at the hardware store for a moment, feeling a flicker of memory.

Her father had often visited this place... Except back then, it had been called something else.

Hämmer und Nägel. The store had changed. Even the window frames were painted green now instead of the old, faded pink they'd once been.

In fact, as she continued slowly through town, behind the old woman's sedan, Ilse realized just how much of the town had changed. Many of the buildings were still quaint, Bavarian. But the shops, the stores, the businesses, didn't have their old, small-town charm. Many were now two stories, even three, with bright signs and newly painted facades. A few of the signs even boasted English names, suggesting the nine-hundred-year-old forest city had become something of a tourist destination.

Her father would have loathed this. He'd always preferred his privacy. Of course, given what he'd kept in his basement, she supposed she couldn't blame him. Or, well, perhaps she could. Perhaps there was nothing but blame to ascribe to the old man.

That was why she was here, wasn't it? To revisit? The boogeyman was no longer snoring in her closet. Now, step by step, he seemed to be emerging. Not just in her memories, and not just in the brief and lucid recollection of her trauma in both dream and experience.

But, also, in very bloody reality.

She shivered, remembering her sister, and how Heidi had come at her, trying to kill her. The victims Heidi left in her wake. The way she'd stalked Ilse, trying to make her pay...

For being late.

Ilse had escaped. Three weeks had passed before she'd sent help. She still couldn't remember why. What had caused the delay, exactly?

Her fingers clutched more tightly at her steering wheel as she rolled slowly past an old, double-lot building that had once been a general store. Now, the structure was in ill-repair, boarded up and—by the looks of the notice out front calling for a zoning meeting at town hall—soon to be slated for destruction.

Distracted now, as she turned up a familiar street, Ilse realized she'd rolled through a red stop sign with white trim. She cursed, slamming her brakes halfway through the intersection. Someone leaned on their horn. And she winced as an old green sedan veered around her, someone shouting out the window as they passed.

Sorry, she muttered quickly. Sorry! she tried to call louder through the window.

But her voice felt stuck in her throat. Thankfully, no police had been in view of the traffic infraction. Ilse gritted her teeth, glancing around the unfamiliar town. A marriage of quaint and modern had slowly swallowed the dusty, unpopulated village she'd once remembered from the trips her father had often taken here, especially to the hardware store. Once in a while, if they'd been on very good behavior, the children had been allowed—one at a time—to occasionally accompany him. They'd remain in the backseat of the truck, often enough, the doors child-proofed to prevent escape.

But as she looked around, it all seemed so unfamiliar...

Why had she come, exactly?

Father wasn't alone... Not alone upstairs...

She shivered at Heidi's dying words. Ilse had never realized that her father had worked with an accomplice before.

An accomplice. Someone had lived upstairs with her old man. Someone who'd been part of it all. If there really was an accomplice, then she had to find them. A mystery within a mystery. Her father, according to Heidi, was now in prison, locked away.

The accomplice though?

Perhaps not so much. And what about her other siblings? The others who'd managed to survive that horrible basement?

Her memory flashed again. She heard the snip of scissors, felt a sudden agony along the side of her face. Instinctively, Ilse's hand darted to her cheek, covering the scar leading from her missing earlobe down to her chin. She swallowed, brushing her dark hair forward again.

What exactly had happened