The Serial Killer Beside Me

By Lorelei Bell

After a girl's body is found near the Mississippi, close to where Lainey lives, it sends a shockwave through town. Soon after, another death occurs, and it becomes clear that a serial killer is on the loose.

Lainey is facing trouble of her own in the form of a bicyclist, who nearly runs her down. When she begins getting odd phone calls from a man, Lainey wonders if the biker has something to do with the case.

When Lainey's best friend Nadine is abducted, tensions rise and Lainey vows to rescue her friend and bring the killer to justice... even if it means she must put her own life at risk.

In the third book in Lorelei Bell's 'Lainey Quilholt Mysteries', the young sleuth comes face to face with her most dangerous foe to date.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Sep 29, 2022

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

A car drove slowly behind me. I ignored it as I ran along the cracked sidewalk. Today I went a little further, trying to push myself. I'd gained five pounds in the past five weeks. No more candy bars, or the occasional ice cream treat. I had begun jogging only this week and it was a tell since I got winded within the first two blocks. The crisp air filled my lungs, and my calves began to hurt midway as I chugged several blocks west and then turned north. I planned to go one block further, turn back south, and head home—probably walk a good deal of it, the way I was feeling. This was my fifth day in a row of running. I had chosen safe streets to run, and in broad daylight, acquiescing to my uncle's and aunt's wishes.

The car, or whatever it was, hadn't sped up to go the normal speed of 25 through town—not even 20. Or ten. But it did turn along with me onto Ringback Street.

It's following me. Shit. Who was it? My Uncle John? Or someone else? They would have honked by now, I reasoned.

Ponytail bobbing, I turned my head slightly and tried to check out the vehicle. A small truck, maybe. It was boxy at any rate. Dark red, maybe maroon. Possibly a Ford, but I wasn't sure. It sounded a little rough in the tailpipe area. I had no idea who was driving this truck, following me. I hadn't gotten a good look at the driver, as they had paused, allowing me to get further ahead. I thought they might have been waiting for me to go past so they could turn into a drive.

Nope.

It continued following me at a snail's pace, almost as if playing a cat and mouse game with me. But this game was no fun. Especially in the wake of the recent news.

There had been a woman's body found on the Illinois side of the Mississippi River, left partially nude. It was found by fishermen returning to their boat one morning about a week ago. She'd been raped and murdered. This had us all, here in Montclair, Iowa, more than just a little nervous. Especially the female population, because Illinois is situated across the river from Montclair, a mere 3,484 feet—the bridge length which spanned from Rapids City, Illinois, to our small town across the mighty Mississippi. The woman's body was barely half a mile from the bridge just south of it, in fact, which might have been a mile from town limits. Thus the reason I didn't jog in the early mornings (not that I could force myself out of bed at an ungodly hour of five AM), nor did I jog after the sun set. I just wasn't going to take a chance on getting abducted by whoever had done this.

Meanwhile, with my present situation, I was getting nervous because the vehicle would not move on. My red flag warning had gone off long ago, and I now mentally reviewed everything I'd been taught when very small. Run to a neighbor's house was one. I now carried pepper spray in my fanny pack, along with my phone. Getting either one out at the moment would cause me to have to slow down. The other side of my brain—not sure if it's the left or the right one—didn't want to believe someone would be so bold as to snatch a person (namely me), in broad daylight, but I'd been warned by Weeks—who was now my Uncle John—that abductions happen like that all the time. He also managed to throw in the fact that a rape happens every five minutes in the United States, making me even more nervous than I already was about jogging by myself. Possibly more often, because some are never reported. He'd then added to the information dump in my head which now spun around in a loop.

I made up my mind and jogged up the sidewalk of the nearest house, preparing my speech once I roused anyone inside. Hi, someone's following me. Please let me in and call the police. I had no idea whose house this was, or if anyone was at home. But getting away from the vehicle was the most important part of running up to the house. For all I knew it could be a little old lady with cataracts with a dozen cats and couldn't hear well. Or I could be walking into a dangerous person's house.

My swift footsteps took me to the cement steps of the front door, wooden with six glass panels arranged at an angle. A fall wreath hung midway, and the doorway was swept of leaves. Three un-carved pumpkins stood as sentinels. This looked promising. My only problem is if they weren't home, then what?

My hand rose and I prepared to knock when I heard a familiar woman's voice yell Hey, Lainey! from behind.

I turned, finding the maroon truck—which wasn't a truck at all, but a Jeep—had stopped at the curb, and a woman I knew was leaning out the passenger window, waving at me. Now that I looked at it properly, it wasn't maroon at all, but an orangy-rust, reminding me of a color in a box of 48 crayons. This was as close to bittersweet as I've ever seen in a car color.

Maureen? I said, more to myself as I turned completely around, away from the door I was about to knock on. My tripping heart throbbed now and began to slow while my brain went through a bunch of ridiculous explanations for my running up to this house.

I darted down the walk toward her Jeep. It looked new.

Hey, this is my new wheels. Thought I'd stop over and show it off, but your aunt said you'd gone jogging. Maureen wore her dark brown hair back off her heart-shaped face in a short tail. Today she was dressed in jeans and a navy sweatshirt that boasted FBI in white. I'd learned she had taken training at the FBI Academy's Profiling Unit in Quantico, Virginia, a few years ago. She was second in command in the Sheriff's Department, under my uncle. Thus my relief came quickly as I leaned into her new car.

Cool wheels, but sounds like you'll need a new muffler soon. I'd been dating Nate Blackstone, who was taking automotive classes at Whitney College where I attended, and was picking up lots of automotive knowledge from him. Not that I would remember it all, but sometimes a little nugget found its way to the forefront.

I know. I've gotta take it back this afternoon before I go to work, but I wanted to see if I could find you.

Yeah. About that, you stalker, you! I admonished.

Oh. That. Sorry. I had a call, and I sort of pulled over, and then I saw you and didn't want to lose you and so… She shook her head. Hey. Better me than some unwanted. Right?

Yeah, but you gave me a scare. You should have honked. I didn't know your vehicle. I almost knocked on that person's door to get away. I pointed back at the house.

Sorry. But good job. You didn't take for granted I was safe. So, you get ten points.

I laughed. So you're off this morning?

Until five. She glanced up in her rearview mirror as a car drove around her. Hey, I don't want to interrupt your run—

Nah. I've had enough. I think I went too far today, I said, still out of breath.

Want a ride back?

Thought you'd never ask. I grasped the door handle and hopped in. The interior was tan. She grabbed the stick between the two front seats as soon as I buckled myself in.

You have classes tonight?

I glanced at her. Unlike me, Maureen had a steel trap for a memory.

That's right.

She turned the next corner, and the loud muffler was unmistakable. Yeah. I'll have to get this into Terry, see if he can get it fixed. He sold it to me, so, I'm thinking he needs to fix it for free.

You sign a contract?

You bet I did. I don't go into anything this expensive without one. She smiled as she drove back toward my street. Our conversation about her new ride seemed to be exhausted and my thoughts went back to my concerns about the murderer/rapist.

Why do they do it? I asked.

At the stop sign, Maureen paused and looked at me. Why do who do what?

You know. These guys who rape and kill.

Oh. Maureen pulled forward across the quiet intersection. Our town was quiet, most of the time. We'd had only one murder in town a few months back, which I helped solve.

You really want to talk about this? she asked, looking at me through her sunglasses.

I shrugged. I'm curious.

She pulled up to my aunt's house where I lived and pulled the break, letting the Jeep idle. First of all, rapists are into power, degradation, domination, and pain. She allowed that to sink in. They're not normal, Lainey. Just so you understand that. Some people will call them 'sick', which is probably only half true. They're predators. They're psychopaths out of control.

Did you learn about them at the academy? I asked, meaning at the FBI Academy in Quantico.

It was one of my studies, yes.

So you can profile one?

Sure.

A breeze eddied crisp leaves from our yard, which had begun looking more autumn-like now that the trees turned beautiful shades of gold and red. I reminded myself I had some dusting to do in the house as one of my household duties. The yard work was now all Weeks’.

Did they identify her yet?

Not that I know. I'll probably learn more when I get to work tonight. She paused, but I could tell she wanted to say more, so I didn't move to get out yet.

One thing I do know is that when there's one body, there'll be more. Maybe some from previous attacks will be discovered. Or someone hasn't reported someone missing, as yet. I'm not saying this to scare you, but to prepare you.

I nodded somberly.

Just keep aware of your surroundings, like you did today. Don't take anything for granted, like thinking this creep isn't still out there, because he is.

You think he might hit in our town?

I hope not, but like I told you, he's a predator and he'll find a vic and carry on as he would normally without feeling remorse or fear.

I took a breath and let it out. On that note, I've got some housework to do for my aunt before I hit the books.

Just be safe and lock the doors when you're home.

A chill ran down my spine just then. Wow. You're scaring me now.

There's no way to know how this guy grabs his vics, so we have to take every precaution. Sorry, but that's just the way it is.

Thanks. Have a good shift, I told her, knowing it was a twelve-hour shift. Sometimes they did double shifts to give other people time off. Or if something came in that needed their attention. I was thinking that if the killer began killing in our county, that would be a big headache, for sure.

Thanks. Be careful. Be safe, she said.

I left her and crossed the grass to the sidewalk leading to the light-green house with dormers. The porch swing was now home to a stuffed scarecrow seated there. Looking quite happy, in a grim sort of way, a full-sized skeleton beamed next to him. One bony arm was draped around the scarecrow as though the two were good buddies. Uncle John's donation toward Halloween décor this year had certainly surprised me when he'd come up with this. And here I thought he couldn't dip into the fun part of Halloween. My aunt had arranged cornstalks on either side of the porch entry, and I'd carved a few pumpkins with Weeks’ help. I loved the smell of burning pumpkins; it reminded me of childhood, back when things that went bump in the night were usually innocent and explainable. Now, with knowing we may have a killer/rapist at large, any noise would probably make me jump a mile, have me checking closets and locking every door and window while I was home. Which is exactly what I did once I got inside, locking the front door behind me.

That was when my phone in my fanny pack vibrated and made me jump.

Oh, shit! I said, reaching for the thing. The readout said it was Nate. I answered.

Hi.

You sound breathless. I didn't catch you on your run, did I?

No. I just got home. I'm just a little spooked, is all. I headed into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed a bottle of water.

Spooked? Everything's okay, isn't it?

Yes. It's just that we're told to lock doors and windows, that sort of thing. I set my phone down on the table, having engaged the speaker and cracked open the bottle.

I can come by and pick you up tonight, he said.

In the Mustang? Sounds awesome, I said. I thought your brother's car was on the fritz, and he was using it.

His other car is fixed, now. That was a Chevy Malibu, not quite as old as the classic '68 Mustang. Nate normally drove his Harley, but I didn't like riding it long distances. Plus, it was getting too cold to ride.

Don't tell me. You fixed it.

That's right.

Good. I hate night classes, but I like when you pick me up, I said. But in a car, not the Harley.

He laughed.

And I like picking you up.

Our conversation dipped into the usual chatter about nothing in particular and came to a close soon after. I then went about the business of taking a shower—another reason I was so spooked, as I was all alone in the house. The shower was all the way upstairs.

Having already locked the front door, I made sure the back doors were locked, that no window was unlocked—which it shouldn't be this time of year, but I still made doubly sure. I took out clean underwear, grabbed my sweats, and headed for the bathroom, locking that door as well. With visions of killers sneaking in while I was noisily taking a shower, I opted for a bath, instead. Twenty minutes later, all the sweat washed away, I emerged from the bath and opened the door to the hallway, letting the steam out. Silence greeted me, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs, and the refrigerator making its usual gurgling noises. Poe, our cat, would be with Aunt Jessica at the bookstore, so I was absolutely alone. Hearing nothing, I dashed to my room and decided a locked door there would be prudent, too. See? I was abnormally paranoid about a killer lurking around the house. I mentally slapped myself and unlocked my bedroom door. I decided, though, to keep the door ajar, this way giving the killer easy access to me. But I'd hear him coming up our creaky steps so I could grab something to throw at him. My mind was in a dither about this, that's for sure.

Trying to keep my mind off my paranoid concerns, I waded through homework and chose to do some of it. My history class was tonight, and I had to read a chapter or two to keep myself current. There was a test in a few days. I wasn't great at remembering dates and names, but I was somehow holding a passing grade. I just wasn't looking forward to mid-finals, which were as inevitable as snow was here in winter.

After less than an hour, I fell asleep on my bed, which I attributed to a combination of boredom with the subjects, and loss of concern over any possibility of being murdered today.

Noise downstairs woke me. It's funny how you don't realize you've fallen asleep until you wake up. Weeks’ voice was distinctive, and it was a one-sided conversation, so I presumed it was a phone call. From whom was the question. I couldn't determine if it was Aunt Jessica he spoke to or someone else.

Thumping downstairs, I breezed into the kitchen where John Weeks paced and spoke into his cell phone. By his stiff posture, and other body language tells, he was into a serious conversation.

What's it look like?… Is the coroner there?… Should I come out or what? Pause and then, I'll meet you there, Mo. He hung up and looked at me with dark blue eyes. He stood six-two, broad-shouldered, and at age thirty-nine, he was still what my aunt would call a hunk. I wasn't sure, but maybe she thought his Tom Selleck mustache was sexy, too. He'd been divorced years ago and had three daughters—all grown now and living elsewhere or going to college. He never wears a tie with his dark brown sheriff's uniform, and today was no exception. I was slowly getting used to the fact he now lived with us, after my aunt and he had tied the knot over the summer.

Hi, Lainey, I've gotta go. He picked up the keys to his SUV.

What's going on?

He shook his head. I thought he wasn't going to share the news. But I had a feeling I knew what it was.

There's another body, I said. My clue was his asking if the coroner was there yet over the phone.

He turned his big head toward me as he grasped the knob of the back door and gave me a look as though I'd snatched that right out of his head.

I overheard you talking on the phone. I thought I'd better explain before he thought I had supernatural powers of telepathy. I don't, but sometimes I get strong hunches. And I can read people really well.

Right. Gotta go. In case I can't call Jessica, let her know not to hold supper for me. I'll find something to eat when I get back. He swooshed out the door as if urgency was needed to get to a dead body. But then, it might be another raped murder victim. That was my best hunch by the way he acted and the things he'd said into the phone.

I saluted the shut door, then darted my gaze to the kitchen clock. The big hand was snuggling up to the number 11 on the face, and the small hand pointed at the 5. I didn't have my cell phone on me, so reached for the landline set on the wall and punched in the number for my aunt's shop.

Good evening, Books n' Such, said my aunt's pleasant voice in my ear. I'd expected her to have let the answering machine pick up by now.

Hi, Aunt Jess, I said.

Oh, hi, Lainey. Everything okay?

That's what I'm calling about. Your sheriff husband had a call. Sounded serious, he had to run and said not to wait for him for dinner.

My aunt's reaction was predictable. I hope it's not another murder.

Sounded like it. He wouldn't say, but I overheard the word 'coroner' used in a sentence in a phone conversation, and I asked if another body was found.

And he said nothing.

Right. I can read his mind, I smirked into the phone.

So, you're calling me so that I don't worry about making supper for all three of us.

I knew I'd gotten my mind-reading abilities from someone.

She chuckled. Okay, I'm closing up shop and I'll be home. Figure out what you want to eat. Me and Poe will be home in a little while. My aunt's shop was only open until five, except for Saturdays. Most places closed the same time, except for diners, which stayed open until nine. The bars stayed open much later, of course.

Be careful, I said. Those words had become the official end of every conversation I'd been in today.

I will. On the tail end, Poe made a plaintiff meow into the phone, and then she clicked off. As I replaced the handset, a siren wailed somewhere nearby. From the direction, I thought it was down Front Street—the main road that extended along the river. I made my way to the front door, opened it, and watched a sheriff's vehicle with lights flashing, but no siren, rush past the house heading downtown. I wondered where this body had been found. Obviously it would be on our side of the river, since Weeks' deputies were involved. Thus it could be anywhere in Scott County.

Maureen had been right when she'd said there'd be another body found. I could almost bet it was another one like the first. I hated when I was right about murder.

CHAPTER 2

Outside, the sun was vacating the sky, leaving a burnt-orange glow in the west. Streetlights were blinking on as I stood with the front door open, feeling the chill of this autumn night through my hoodie. Lights in neighbors' houses glowed. Some neighbors’ yards had received the usual decorations of Halloween lights, spooks, and cadavers rising out of lawns. The Davises’ boasted a life-sized coffin and somehow the lid lifted every other minute or so, whereby the vampire within would grimace at passersby. On the lawn next to them, an inflated ghost and an over-large pumpkin glowed. I could hear the sound of the air compressor working to keep them inflated. Halloween was only a week away.

To get into the spirit, I plugged in our orange lights that hung and draped over the entrance to the porch and lit the candles inside our three pumpkins. My aunt had bought enough candy to feed every living soul in Montclair. We did get a good crowd on Halloween, from my past experience living here.

In the moments it took me to do all that, my aunt pulled up to the front door. Unusual, I thought, for her to do this. She usually parked around back in the small driveway and came in through the kitchen.

Carrying cloth bags, she headed up the walk, her heels clicking smartly on the cement. Poe, the black and white long-hair furball darted ahead, meowing as though my aunt were visually impaired and needed his voice to guide her.

Hi, she said.

You bought groceries? I asked, looking at the bags.

During lunch. I've got a pizza and some other frozen meals.

Ooo. My favorite, I said.

Me too. No dishes, and I've got the large portion of spaghetti and meatballs for John, whenever he gets home. It was sometimes easier than preparing a meal, especially when her sheriff husband had to work nights—sometimes until the wee hours of the morning.

If he gets home. I grabbed one of the bags and helped her inside. Shutting the door, I twisted both the doorknob lock and then the deadbolt to secure our safety. We put away groceries in record time. I told her about Maureen's new Jeep, and where I'd seen her on my jog. The usual conversation of our respective day filled the kitchen as we zapped our meals in the microwave, one at a time. Our meal was interrupted when my aunt's phone bleeped. From the limited amount of words used, I knew it was Weeks calling her to let her know he would be extremely late. When she hung up she let out a sigh.

That was Uncle John?

Yes. He's about five miles south of here in a farmer's field where they found a body.

I was amazed she was able to speak of this at the dinner table. We—that is, Weeks and I—were forbidden to speak or discuss the business of murder and mayhem in or around town, or anything remotely related to gore and dead bodies.

And he'll be very late, I said. It