The Serial Killer's Wife Read online

  praise for USA TODAY bestselling author ROBERT SWARTWOOD and THE SERIAL KILLER’S WIFE

  “This is a scary, thrilling, page-turning, race-against-the-clock novel if ever there was one, with a true shocker of an ending. Miss this one at your own peril.”

  —Blake Crouch

  “An explosive summer thriller. Robert Swartwood is a sharp writer, his prose lean and mean as a razor blade. He notches up the tension from chapter to chapter like a master storyteller, keeping you reading long into the night.”

  —The Man Eating Bookworm

  “Robert Swartwood is the next F. Paul Wilson—if F. Paul Wilson’s DNA was spliced with Michael Marshall Smith. If you haven’t yet read Swartwood, you’re missing out.”

  —Brian Keene

  “An exceptional novelist.”

  —Douglas Clegg

  THE SERIAL KILLER’S WIFE

  ROBERT SWARTWOOD

  Contents

  Foreword by Blake Crouch

  The Serial Killer’s Wife

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Legion

  Also by Robert Swartwood

  Copyright

  FOREWORD

  Robert Swartwood, the writer and editor behind the Hint Fiction movement and subsequent W. W. Norton anthology, has come out swinging with one hell of a thriller.

  One of my favorite suspense tropes is the person in hiding, who, by some terrible circumstance, has been forced to create a new life for themselves. When done well, rarely is storytelling so compelling.

  Herein lies such a story.

  Elizabeth Piccioni, aka Sarah, has created a new life for herself and her son out of the ruins of her old one—namely being married to the infamous serial murderer, Edward Piccioni, now incarcerated for his unspeakable crimes.

  But someone has found her, and they’ve used her most precious possession—her son—as leverage for her to do a horrible thing which will undoubtedly send her reeling back into the nightmare of her past.

  This is a scary, thrilling, page-turning, race-against-the-clock novel if ever there was one, with a true shocker of an ending.

  Miss this one at your own peril.

  — Blake Crouch,

  May 2011

  THE SERIAL KILLER’S WIFE

  For Holly

  Just as in Eden, where Adam was manipulated by Eve, I believe that Edward Piccioni was manipulated. Not that he did not viciously rape and murder those women—he did do that without a doubt—but he was manipulated into doing so by his own Eve: Elizabeth Piccioni. He was the puppet, she the puppet master.

  — Clarence Applegate,

  The Widower Maker

  PART I:

  CHILDREN OF CAIN

  CHAPTER 1

  THEY WERE DISCUSSING the different ways to kill the child molester.

  Or rather Chad Cooper was discussing the different ways, sitting at his place at the lunchroom table, slicing an apple, while the rest of them stared at him in stunned silence.

  “Drowning him might not be the best idea,” he said, his focus on the apple, “as it raises the question of just how you get a chance to push and then keep his head under water. Maybe a hit-and-run would be better. No, you know what would be best? An icicle. Don’t they say that’s the perfect murder weapon?”

  He paused, suddenly noticing the palpable silence, and looked up. He was in his forties, his brown hair thinning, his potbelly beginning to grow more pronounced by the semester. A social studies teacher for eleven years, he was known for being one of the students’ favorite teachers in the middle school. He always incorporated movies into his lessons and would sometimes bring in his guitar and play popular songs whose words he’d change around to help the students remember certain vocabulary words and important dates and places that would appear on their tests.

  “I’m sorry”—his voice now suddenly gruff—“did I say something inappropriate?”

  How the conversation had even turned to Reginald Moore nobody could begin to guess, but they all knew Chad’s frustrations, what with the convicted sex offender having moved into his neighborhood just a few weeks ago.

  “Chad,” Eileen Peters sighed, an English teacher for fifteen years, the eighth grade team leader who seemed to always have her auburn hair in a bun, “we all know how you feel—”

  “No you don’t. Especially you, Eileen. You don’t even have kids.”

  The silence that followed this was even more palpable. Eileen’s face had begun to redden. It was true, she had no kids, because, according to gossip, she was barren.

  Chad, who normally had a cheery disposition, didn’t even seem fazed by the fact Eileen now looked like she was about to cry.

  “And the worst part?” He shoved an apple slice in his mouth. “They let him move into a house less than three miles away from the elementary school. I mean, seriously, what the fuck is that?”

  Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Nobody even looked at Chad now as he chewed his apple slice and shook his head. He scanned the table, trying to find supporters, somebody to back him up with just a simple nod, but none of his colleagues would meet his eyes. And so it made sense that, after having exhausted the normal route, he would turn to her.

  “What about you, Sarah?”

  Lunchtime on Fridays had always been a treat for her, the Oakville Middle School eighth grade teachers winding down after a stressful week, the men going without ties, the women wearing jeans, happy to know that in only a few hours the weekend would start and it would be another two days off before they had to come back in on Monday and do it all over again. They’d sit around the three long tables pushed together to create one large table, their brown-bagged lunches placed in front of them. During the week one or two teachers might work at one of the half dozen desks set up around the room, grading papers or prepping tests. But not on Friday. No, Friday was a time when everyone shared lunch together, joking, laughing, telling stories.

  She found herself clearing her throat in a demure sort of way. “I’m sorry?”

  “You have a son. He’s what—five, six years old?”

  She gave a cautious glance around the table. “Five.”

  “So then how would you feel if a registered sex offender moved in right down the block from you? Wouldn’t you be a little, oh I don’t know, upset?”

  For the first time in a long while she reminded herself that she wasn’t supposed to be here. She was a teacher’s assistant, yes, but this room, this table, was for the teachers. Those men and women who had taken four years of college to earn their education degrees, some who had gone on to earn their master’s, who applied and interviewed and were eventually hired as first-year teachers, always the toughest job for any teacher, having to prove your worth not just to the faculty and staff and school board but to the students, to yourself.

  Where she should be right now was in the cinder-block room connected to the cafeteria, a sterile place filled only with the continuous buzz of the Coke machine in the corner, of myriad conversations from the seventh and eight graders out beyond the door propped open with a makeshift wooden stopper. There she should be with the other teacher assistants, the other substitutes, but over the past two years she had slowly stopped eating her lunch in that room and transitioned to this room, with the real teachers, the place that felt more comfortable, and they had welcomed her with open arms and she had enjoyed every moment of it, every moment except this one.

  “Well?” Chad said, chopping off another slice of apple much harder than was necessary, his focus on her turning into a glare.

  “I imagine I would not be happy about the situation, no.”

  That glare continued, but only for a moment, and then Chad grinned, gave one of those half-laughs, and tu
rned back to the rest of the table.

  “See? Even Sarah wouldn’t be happy about a child molester moving in next door. And the truth is, none of you would either.”

  “Chad,” Dick Cummings sighed, a Phys Ed teacher of fourteen years who had no choice but to endure his name, “none of us said—”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Chad snapped. He’d brought up the paring knife so it was pointed toward Dick, held it there for a second or two before he noticed the expressions on everyone’s faces. Pulling himself together, he quickly lowered the knife, placed it on the table beside his napkin and the remains of his apple, and stood up. “I’m ... sorry. I think I just need to take a walk.”

  And then before anyone could say a word he was gone, the door closing behind him with the finality of a period, and at once everyone released a breath at the same time.

  The phone on Eileen’s desk rang.

  As Eileen got up and went to her desk, everyone else started talking.

  “The ironic thing?” Gail Costello said, an Art teacher. “He considers himself so liberal. Always about pro-choice this, no death penalty that. I mean, I wouldn’t be happy if that pervert moved in down the street from me either, but don’t be a hypocrite.”

  This was followed by nods of agreement, more murmuring, and before she knew it Eileen called her name.

  “Sarah? You have a phone call.”

  She frowned as she met Eileen at her desk, wondering who would be calling her at this extension. Maybe Todd if he had a free period that coincided with this lunch hour. Anybody else would have her cell phone number and would try her there first, and when she didn’t answer they’d leave a message if whatever they wanted to discuss with her was important enough. Then again, that was doubtful too, as pretty much nobody had her cell phone number.

  Eileen gave her a forced smile, one that reminded her she wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place, was just a lowly teacher’s assistant whose lunchtime was meant to be sequestered to that cinder-block room just outside the cafeteria with the rest of the non-faculty.

  She took the phone with her own forced smile, then waited until Eileen had started away before placing the phone to her ear and saying hello.

  “Elizabeth Piccioni?” said a dark robotic voice on the other end.

  She let only a moment pass before saying, “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong person.”

  “Elizabeth”—that dark robotic voice having no emotion whatsoever—“how would you like me to kill your son—fast or slow?”

  CHAPTER 2

  SHE WAS IN the hallway, headed directly toward room 218—Mary Boyle’s Earth Science—when Chad Cooper came out of the men’s room and stood directly in front of her.

  “I want to apologize.”

  Her body was shaking, blood was pounding away in her ears, that for an instant she didn’t hear him—didn’t even see him standing there—and automatically went to step around him.

  He moved to the side so he was standing in her way again.

  “Sarah, please. I acted like an asshole back there, and I wanted to—”

  “I have to go.”

  “What?”

  “Chad”—speaking between clenched teeth—“get out of my way.”

  “But—”

  She pushed him, much harder than she intended, catching him by surprise and knocking him off balance. He stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet and falling to the floor.

  “What the fuck?” he said loudly, then quickly shut his eyes and raised his shoulders, hoping no student (or administrator) was nearby.

  She was already walking past him, ignoring him as he called her name, asking what was wrong, what her problem was, then, under his breath, calling her what sounded like crazy bitch.

  That last bit almost stopped her, her body shaking even more, the blood so loud in her ears she could hardly hear her own thoughts. The idea of turning around, stomping back toward Chad, slapping him across the face appealed to her in a way she knew was wrong. She even paused for an instant, considering it, then continued forward, passing different Art projects taped to the walls, one of them having pulled away from the wall and hanging limp, like it would fall down at any moment.

  She hurried around the corner, came to the room, tried the door but it was locked just as she knew it would be. Fumbling then in her pocket, bringing out the keys, she thought briefly of Eileen, thinking that she wasn’t a complete non-faculty because at least she had a room key. As she opened the door she could hear her cell phone vibrating in her bag located beneath the shelf behind the teacher’s desk.

  A minute, that terrible voice had told her, she had one minute to answer her cell phone, and as she sprinted past the desks to the front of the room, tore open her canvas bag, she knew that Chad Cooper had caused her to miss her deadline, that when she found her phone the sixty seconds would be up.

  The phone was still vibrating when she pressed the TALK button and held it to her ear.

  “Three seconds left,” the voice said. “I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

  So far—from leaving the lunchroom, to her encounter with Chad Cooper, to entering room 218—she had managed to hold back the tears. Now they sprang freely, running down her face.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Do you know what I find interesting? You denied being Elizabeth Piccioni only once. Then I mentioned killing your son and you immediately dropped the pretense. Why do you think that is?”

  “Please”—clearly sobbing now—“I don’t know what this is about.”

  “I also find it interesting that you ended back up in a school. Only you’re not a real teacher now, are you? What’s the proper word for someone like you?”

  Her legs had become much too weak so she pulled out the chair and sat down and propped her elbow on the desk and cradled her head with her free hand.

  “Elizabeth? I asked you a question.”

  “Teacher’s assistant,” she murmured. “I’m a teacher’s assistant.”

  “What does that pay—barely minimum wage? Do you even get health benefits?”

  “Please ... let my son go.”

  “Okay.”

  She paused, holding her breath.

  “I mean, you present such a solid argument. Plus, you asked nicely. Why shouldn’t I let your son go?”

  She stared down at the desktop, at the tests spread out before her. They were the ones she had graded only a few hours ago, Mary reviewing them before she added the scores into the computer.

  “Elizabeth?” When she didn’t answer, the voice said, “Elizabeth, answer me.”

  “What?”

  “If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m not going to let your son go. I will promise you this, though—if you do exactly what I tell you to do, you will get him back alive and without a scratch.”

  Steeling herself, taking shallow breaths, she said, “What do you want from me?”

  “We’ll get to that. First, let’s go over the usual bullshit. No police. No talking about this to anyone. I’m keeping tabs on you, and any slight indication you’ve broken my simple rules, your son dies.”

  She was silent, staring down at the test on top of the pile, a quiz about volcanoes and earthquakes that was scored a 63%. It belonged to Dillon Bockian, a sweet boy but not very bright, whose parents she was pretty sure paid him hardly any attention at home.

  “Elizabeth?”

  She’d been sniffing back the tears, wiping at them, but one managed to escape and flee down her cheek. It paused on her chin and hung there for a second before it fell, splashing on the red ink marking Dillon’s test.

  She whispered, “Who are you?”

  “You can call me Cain.”

  “The world’s first murderer.”

  “Well, that’s open for debate. If anything, I think he was just a troubled, misunderstood individual. Now, Elizabeth, listen carefully, because I’m going to say this only once.”

  CHAPTER 3

&nbs
p; LEAVING SCHOOL WASN’T as easy as she had thought it would be.

  Just as Cain quit giving her instructions and disconnected, the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. A moment later the door opened and in came Mary Boyle, her long gray hair trailing behind her, Mary’s lips pressed tightly together in a strange kind of smile as she approached the desk.

  Elizabeth said, “I have to leave.”

  Mary ignored this statement completely, striding right up to her and gently squeezing her arm. “He shouldn’t have singled you out like that in there—believe me, we all agree on that—but you really shouldn’t have pushed him down like you did. He was attempting to apologize, after all.”

  “What?”

  Before Mary could respond, the sound of frantic footsteps filled the hallway outside the door, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum, and then the door opened and the students began trickling in, first Roxane Leonard, her dark hair wrapped in a tight braid, followed by Kevin and Justin Humphrey, twins identical in every way except a slight birthmark on Justin’s left ear.

  More of the children entered the classroom, one after another, and though Elizabeth tried not to—though she tried to keep her mind as blank as she possibly could—she saw Matthew’s face in each of their faces, his eyes, his ears, his nose, even his crooked smile, and then Dillon Bockian came in and the tears threatened again, Elizabeth wanting to rush to him and take him in an embrace and tell him that he didn’t have to be scared of anything, he was a bright boy and would always be bright.

  But no, wait, she couldn’t do that, because some psychopath had taken her child, someone who had given her instructions, a deadline, and that deadline had been for five minutes and now how many precious seconds had she wasted here with Mary Boyle?