The perfect victim, p.1
The Perfect Victim, page 1
The Perfect Victim
David Sodergren
This book is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to names and people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author.
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Cover art by Gemma Amor
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Copyright © 2021 David Sodergren
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 9798517545589
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Afterword
Also by David Sodergren
About the Author
For George Taylor
Forever my best friend
1
Baxter watched the girl exit the school grounds, accompanied — as always — by that little curly-haired bitch. He scratched at the filth beneath his fingernails with a switchblade, inspecting the black muck he dug out.
“There she is,” he muttered. “Like fucking clockwork.”
He leaned back in the driver’s seat of the nondescript white van — stolen, new plates — and tried to act casual as the teenagers filtered through the gates, laughing and screaming and chasing each other. A group of boys barreled past, one of them shoving the smallest kid into the side of the van. The impact resounded throughout the vehicle, and Baxter fought back the urge to get out and grab one of those fucking assholes by the throat.
But he couldn’t be seen. Not after all the planning. This was it, the big day, months of research and preparation leading to this moment. They couldn’t blow it, not now. And if they did, it sure as shit wasn’t going to be him that fucked the whole operation up.
“Which one?” said Corvo, squinting through the grime-encrusted window at the parade of identically dressed young people bustling along the sidewalk. “They all look the same.”
Baxter snorted in annoyance.
“Blonde ponytail, next to the redhead.”
“I don’t see her,” said Corvo, his voice choked with phlegm. He wound down the window and spat, the glob of mucus landing on an unsuspecting girl’s schoolbag. He turned to Baxter, grinning, most of his front teeth missing, the remaining few nothing but blackened stumps. “Hey, you see that? I got her right on the—”
Baxter smacked Corvo across his arm. It was a token gesture — the coiled, tense muscles beneath Corvo’s thin sweater didn’t register the blow — but Baxter knew violence was the only way to keep the bigger man in line. He had met plenty of assholes like Corvo through the years, but rarely as stupid, or as loyal. It was a dangerous combination, but, if harnessed correctly, one that could yield satisfactory results.
“She’s right there,” he said. “Want me to put on a neon sign and go slap her ass, you dumb motherfucker?”
“Fuck you,” grumbled Corvo. “Don’t need to hit me. I see her now.”
Together they watched as the girl bounded down the street with the redhead, her ponytail bouncing with each step, skirt swishing above her knees. The hot summer sun beat down, turning the van interior into a clammy sweatbox.
“Do we follow?” asked Corvo, as if he had forgotten the plan already.
“Not yet.”
“But she’s getting away.”
“We don’t wanna act suspicious. We’re just gonna sit here like two ugly bastards in a van until she takes the lane.”
Corvo wiped sweat from his brow. It left a stain on his sleeve. “What if she doesn’t?”
Baxter smiled. “She will.”
He had watched the girl leave school every day for the last two months, always from a different vantage point, usually in a new disguise. Whereas some teenagers were unreliable, this one was a model of efficient predictability. She never cut class. Always went straight home.
She was the perfect victim.
He knew her whole routine. Out of school at three-forty Monday to Thursday, twelve-fifteen on a Friday. Today was Friday, the start of the weekend. The girl would head three blocks down Pendrew Street with her friend, and then the two would part at Schofield Lane, where she always took a shortcut through the industrial park. Where she went from there didn’t matter. By that point, she would be bound and gagged and in the van, exactly as planned.
“What about now?” asked Corvo, drumming his fingernails nervously against the back of his phone.
“Just wait,” said Baxter. His hand slipped, and the switchblade jabbed into his finger. He flinched, watching the blood ooze from the small wound before wiping it on his pant leg.
He allowed himself a smile.
“Just wait.”
2
Katy Ketcher stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and fixed Jill with her most serious stare, the kind that said, hey listen, this is important.
“What’s up?” said Jill, brushing a strand of wavy red hair from her eyes.
Katy frowned and looked at her feet. She kicked a stray pebble onto the road as a couple of boys raced past on their way home.
“It’s nothing,” she said, in a tone that suggested it was something.
Jill, being the good friend she was, played along. “Come on, you can tell me.”
Katy considered taking her hand, but it was too hot to touch someone else. The temperature had to be nudging one-hundred, the sun a shimmering orange globe in the sky.
How long would it take for your eyes to melt if you looked straight at it?
It was a good question, and one she would return to later, but right now there were more pressing matters. School was out for the weekend, but she wouldn’t be able to relax and enjoy herself without getting something off her chest.
“I saw Jake talking with Leslie at lunch,” she said with all the gravity the situation demanded.
Jill shrugged. “So?”
“So,” said Katy, stretching the syllable out like bubblegum. “You think he’s gonna ask her?”
“For what?” smiled Jill, adopting a guileless tone that always wound Katy up. “A sandwich? The secret to eternal life?”
Katy playfully shoved her friend and turned her back on her. “You’re such a bitch. To the dance, obviously. You think they’ll go together?”
“Hadn’t really thought about it.”
“I’m serious,” said Katy. She knew Jill was only messing with her, but this was not the time. “She’s so much prettier than me.”
“That’s true.”
“What?”
Jill grinned and rolled her eyes theatrically. “I’m kidding. You’re the prettiest princess in all the kingdom.”
The sarcasm was not lost on Katy. “Shut up,” she said. It was a lame retort, but the heat made it difficult to think of anything better.
She walked on, Jill scampering after her. Her friend’s hand tugged on her schoolbag.
“Of course he’s gonna ask you,” said Jill. “You see the way he was staring at you in English?”
Katy stopped a moment, thoughtful. It was true. Jake could easily have kept turning to Leslie to ask for answers. She sat closer to him, after all. But no, he had pivoted further in his seat to ask her. That had to mean something, surely?
“I guess you’re right,” she said.
“I’m always right. That’s why we’re friends.”
Katy tilted her head. “Do explain.”
“You need me to stop you from making bad decisions.”
“Uh-huh,” said Katy. “And where were you that time I bleached my hair?”
Jill pulled a face. “I thought we agreed never to talk about… the incident.”
“Yeah, well, I learned a valuable lesson. Never do anything you can pay to have someone else do for you.”
“Words to live by. Hey, do you—”
But Katy had stopped again. She was dimly aware of Jill talking, but something had caught her interest. A van parked on the other side of the street. The once-white exterior was thick with dirt, and someone had written WASH ME in the filth with their finger. A man sat inside, his face obscured by the sun-streaked windows.
He’s watching you.
The man turned away, suddenly interested in what was in the glove compartment. It was a dismal attempt to look inconspicuous.
Jill waved her hand in front of her friend’s face. “Katy… Earth to Katy, you still with us?”
Katy glanced at her. “That van,” she said quietly.
“Yes,” agreed Jill. “That is a van. Would you like a round of applause?”
“The guy in it was staring at me.”
“The windows are so dirty you can’t even see in,” said Jill. “You sure there’s someone in there?”
“I saw movement.”
“Probably some pervert with a schoolgirl fetish. Keira Page says all old men have one. It’s Freudian, or something.”
“Who’s Keira Page?” said Katy , only half-listening, watching for motion from inside the van.
“You know, Ronnie Page’s sister. Got fingered by Lenny Clark in the girls’ locker room. She has a YouTube channel about gardening.”
Katy finally looked away, giving Jill her most incredulous stare. “What?”
“It’s true. She has thirteen subscribers to her YouTube channel. She’s gonna take the gardening world by storm, or so she says.”
“I wouldn’t let Lenny Clark’s fingers anywhere near me,” Katy said absently. “He still picks his nose.”
Jill leaned in close. “I heard he eats his boogers,” she said.
Katy wasn’t listening.
She could have sworn the man was watching her. Was there someone else beside him? She stepped off the sidewalk between two parked cars and stared at the van. The engine rumbled into life and the vehicle pulled out, nearly sideswiping a passing car in its haste to leave.
“Told you,” said Jill. “It was just some old creep eating his lunch and touching himself.”
“You’re gross,” said Katy. Jill took her by the arm, but Katy’s eyes tracked the vehicle down the curiously silent street until it made a right turn and disappeared from view.
“He left when I noticed him.”
Jill laughed. “Oh god, you’re so paranoid. It’s probably the paparazzi trying to get a shot of you. You’ll be on the front page of TMZ by the time we get home. I can see the headline now — KETCHER DAUGHTER SEES VAN, OVERREACTS.”
Katy smiled. “Sorry, I’m being dumb. You’re right, as usual.”
“And don’t you forget it. What would you do without me?”
“I’d be rich and famous.”
“You are rich and famous.”
Katy took Jill by the shoulders and yelled in mock gratitude, “And it’s all thanks to you!”
Jill laughed and shook free. “You’re so embarrassing. Come on.”
They carried on down the street, trying to look as though they weren’t sweating from the oppressive heat. Katy glanced nervously down the road.
The van was gone.
She knew she had an overactive imagination — her teachers often lamented how easily distracted she was — but this time, she was sure she was onto something. Maybe the van belonged to a Russian spy gathering intel on… what time American schools close on a Friday?
No, that couldn’t be right. That was silly.
It was the FBI. It had to be. Bobby Chan once told her he had seen a UFO hovering above the school. The Feds must be here to investigate. Still, Bobby Chan was a weirdo who smelled of pond water. She doubted he would be a reliable source of information.
“Where are you going?” asked Jill.
Katy realized she had passed the entrance to Schofield Lane.
Too preoccupied?
God, even her brain was turning into one of her teachers. She was definitely spending too much time at school.
She glanced down the lane. It had rarely looked so uninviting. Narrower, somehow, the gray buildings on either side stretching to the sky and keeping the sun out.
“Guess I’ll see you later,” she said, trying to shake the annoying feeling.
“It’s a date.” Jill stared at her. “You still thinking about that dirty old van?”
“No,” said Katy. Then, sheepishly, “Yeah, maybe.”
“Want me to walk you home?”
“Huh? Oh, no, it’s okay. It spooked me, that’s all.”
“Then we’ll walk together. I don’t mind.” Jill offered her a lopsided grin. “I love to spend my Fridays strolling through industrial parks, I really do.”
Katy shook her head. “I’ll be fine, honestly. I’ll see you Monday. Unless you wanna go to the movies tomorrow?”
“Sure. Message me. As long as it’s not a horror film. I’ve still not recovered from that last one.” Jill squeezed Katy’s arm, smiled, and walked on, leaving Katy alone on the street.
She stood a while, the midday sun sizzling on her face. The street was quiet. A few stragglers scuffed their way along, hands in pockets, or engrossed in their phones. She gazed down Schofield Lane and hesitated. What the hell was wrong with her? She had walked down this alley every day for the last two years, ever since her father had acquiesced to her demands and stopped sending a chauffeur to pick her up. She just wanted to be like other girls her age, which was why she didn’t go to a private school, or have a personal tutor for maths (though she needed one), or get picked up outside school by a limo. It was embarrassing.
Luckily, her dad had agreed. He agreed to pretty much everything she asked. She had him wrapped around her little finger, that’s what her mom used to say, until the accident took her from them. That was five years ago, when Katy was eleven. Her dad had never remarried, and it had been up to him to raise her. Unfortunately, this also meant he had to give her the dreaded ‘talks’.
Boys, sex, drugs, alcohol; he had somehow muddled his way through all of them. Katy would never forget — no matter how hard she tried — the time he had sat down next to her on the bed and discussed periods, and the changes to her body, and about becoming a woman, his face growing redder with each spluttering word.
“It’s okay, dad. Girls talk,” she had said, letting him off the hook. She had never seen relief wash over someone quite as fast as that. It made her smile to think that her dad — one of the biggest producers in Hollywood, the man behind two Oscar-nominated films (Under the Black Skies of Night and Two Women, both of which Katy thought were boring) — could be reduced to a gibbering wreck with one simple word.
Menstruation.
She supposed all dads were like that, but the idea made it no less amusing.
Feeling better, Katy left the main street and slunk off down the alley, avoiding the broken glass and the dog shit. A light wind whistled after her, swirling candy wrapper butterflies through the air. She only glanced over her shoulder once. Satisfied there was no one following her, she carried on, looking forward to getting home. She would have the house all to herself. The pool cleaner would be gone, and she could spend the rest of the afternoon listening to music and floating in the water. Her homework could wait.
It was a hot, lazy weekend, and she had a feeling it was gonna be a real good one.
3
“Shit! She saw us,” grunted Baxter. Then, to himself, “Suddenly she’s fucking psychic.” He knew his pathetic ruse of looking in the glove compartment hadn’t fooled her for a second.
“You think she knows?” asked Corvo, ducking down into his seat. Baxter looked at him, at the confusion and fear on his round face, a face Baxter had grown to hate over the few months they had known each other.
“Of course not. She’s a nosy fucking kid. All those rich bitches think everyone is out to get them and their money.”
Corvo resumed tapping his nails nervously against the phone. “So the plan is on?”
“Of course it is. Nothing’s changed. We just have to be more careful. Send the message.” The van careened around a corner and almost ran a set of red lights. Baxter braked sharply, sending Corvo’s phone flying from his hands.
“Fuck,” said Corvo, stretching forward, the phone out of reach.
“What are you doing? Send the fucking message!”
Corvo unclasped his seatbelt and groped beneath his feet for the device. “I can’t find it!”
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Baxter. “Check under the seat.”
“I’m trying.”
A flurry of car horns snapped Baxter back to reality. The lights had turned green. He wiped sweat from his eyes and accelerated. The van stank of Corvo’s BO.
Nice going, asshole, thought Baxter. Way to draw attention to yourself. So far you’ve almost hit a car, nearly run some lights and knocked down a pedestrian, then caused mass road rage. What’s next? The whole van gonna explode?
