Classification: P/J

Rating: R for violence (just to be on the safe side)

Distribution: Sure! Just let me know where.

Author’s Note: Enjoy this part – it’ll be the last one for a while, since I’m off to college in a week. As always, feedback is mucho appreciato.

Thanks to Laura and Kilby, my favorite proofers in the world. You rock, guys!

If you feel so inclined, I would worship you always if you voted for me in the Creeker’s Choice Awards Feel free to nominate IKWYDLS in any category you believe fits the story. If you’d like a hint or some more information on IKWYDLS, please visit the IKWYDLS page. Thank you!

The Leery Kitchen
1:13 p.m.

“…then I heard the doors at the back of the church open, and-” He was interrupted by the high-pitched ringing of T.C.’s cellular phone.

“Hang on a moment, Dawson. I should probably get that,” T.C. said. She quickly pressed the button on the phone and held it up to her ear. “T.C. McGonigle,” she said briskly, hoping to get whoever it was off the phone as soon as possible so she could return to their discussion.

“It’s Steve,” the voice on the other end answered. “We’ve got a pair of bodies.”

“Who?” T.C. demanded, scarcely believing her ears. “Did they find them at the church?”

“No. Young couple found in a deserted alley. Pretty messy, according to the bits and pieces of conversation floating around the police station.” T.C. squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated, in an attempt to block out the recurring mental images of Lesley’s body in the bathroom. “T.C.? You still there?”

“I’m here,” she said in a voice that she couldn’t recognize as her own. She cleared her throat. “I’m here,” she said again, this time relieved to discover that she sounded normal. This was one of the times she wondered when she was in the right job; if she could really handle all the death and gore. Steve hadn’t noticed.

“The cops want to secure the crime scene and aren’t letting anyone examine it until they do; not even us. I’m going to go over there right now and see if I can muscle my way in. Meet me there?”

“Actually, I think I’ll hang out here for a little while and finish up with Dawson. How about you call me when they let you poke around?”

“Are you sure?” Steve asked curiously. “You’re usually the one pushing me to get right to the front.”

“I know, Steve, I know.”

“What’s wrong?” T.C. shrugged, even though she knew that Steve couldn’t see her.

“Nothing, Steve. There’s just not really a point to the two of us being there for three hours before they let us go inside the crime tape,” she rationalized, lying through her teeth. The truth was, she couldn’t handle seeing another body in such a short time span. She was good at what she did, but it took her a while to mentally prepare to face death…and at this point, she was completely drained. And the very last thing she wanted to do was let Steve realize her weakness.

“I’ll call you when they let me inside.”

“Bye”

Alley Outside Screen Play Video
1:30 p.m.

“Danielle Covington! Fancy meeting you here,” Steve said, smiling amiably at the head of the forensics team as she walked past where he was standing. She snapped her gloves and frowned.

“Don’t think you can charm your way back there, Steve. No one except police and forensics means you are not coming inside that yellow tape. Got it?”

“Hey, it was worth a shot,” he said, shrugging. “When do you think they’ll let me and T.C. go in there and examine the scene?” Danielle shrugged.

“Not for a few hours, probably. It’s really messy back there and we’ll be busy gathering every shred of evidence that we can.”

“Speaking of evidence, has your team managed to analyze those hairs and fibers from the Rosenberg murder scene? I believe the coroner said they’d be ready today.”

“Indeed they are, although we’re still working on the hair. We’re almost positive that it’s Rosenberg’s, but I want to run another conformational test. The fibers we collected from the scene were all part of her outfit. It was apparently ripped in the attack, although we hadn’t noticed that originally.”

“It was all from Lesley? That doesn’t do much in helping us solve the case,” Steve said dejectedly. He had been hoping for a better lead, although the murderer hadn’t shown any evidence of being careless thus far and didn’t appear to be changing.

“All except for one very interesting little thread.”

“Really,” Steve prompted, his curiosity piqued. “Care to share the details?”

“I’m sure you’d be interested to know.”

“Then tell me already,” he said impatiently. Danielle grinned at the realization that she had power over Steve, something very few people enjoyed. “Come on, Danielle.” She paused for a few excruciating seconds, while Steve shifting his weight anxiously from foot to foot.

“I don’t know. I don’t think I should be sharing confidential information with you,” she smirked.

“How is this confidential? This is my investigation! I’m allowed to know this sort of thing!” Steve was quickly losing his temper, so Danielle decided to avoid a scene and cut straight to the chase.

“The only foreign fiber was of wool origin, very unusual in this small town in the spring. I ran a quick test to determine the sheep it came from and discovered that it was British - doubly unusual. The dye was top of the line, making me doubt that someone in Capeside would have owned it. I contacted Chief Olsen back in Boston and asked him for some help on tracing this particular fiber.”

“And?” Steve asked impatiently. “What did you discover? It was some high-class murderer from London? The killer’s playing Sherlock Holmes?”

“Not quite, Steve. Apparently, this is very rare wool and dye. Chief Olsen was incredibly excited to discover that we had isolated it. He thought for sure that it would tell us exactly who the killer was.”

“Did it?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“Because a certain moron on this detective team owns two of these wool jackets and enjoys keeping one of them in his office, which Chief Olsen discovered as he was trying to locate your cell phone number to give to me.”

“What?”

“Steve, you snagged the sleeve of your wool jacket on the bathroom stall when you were investigating and led us on a wild goose chase for the owner of it. Next time, be a little more careful when you’re around a crime scene. And because of that, you are definitely not going to be allowed in here before anyone else. Stay out of trouble.” With that, Danielle stalked away, leaving Steve speechless…and more than a little upset that he had snagged a thread on his beloved wool jacket.

The Leery House
1:42 p.m.

“Wow, it’s really blowing out there,” Dawson commented as he stared out the big picture window in the family room. “One of those freak New England spring thunderstorms. I didn’t think they could come up this fast, though.”

“One of the perks of living here,” T.C. replied, stretching her arms over her head and yawning. Dawson raised his eyebrows.

“If you say so, although I tend to think of it as a disadvantage.”

“You don’t find it incredibly relaxing to sit by your window and watch the lightning and the rain? I love it. It really reminds you how powerful nature is.”

“I’m not really one for that let’s-admire-nature-while-we-eat-granola thing,” Dawson said apologetically. “I just find it a nuisance when the storms knock out the power lines. The utility companies around here aren’t known for their speed in repair.”

“That’s probably why I don’t mind storms. In Boston, you don’t get trees knocking down power lines like you do out here.”

“That would do it. If I lived in the city, I’m sure that — wow, that was a huge flash of lightning.”

“One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five one thousand, six one thousand…there we go!” T.C. exclaimed as she heard the loud rumble of thunder echo across the sky. “A little over a mile away.”

“How do you know that?” Dawson inquired. “How does counting to six one thousand tell you that it’s a mile away?”

“You’ve never done that before?” T.C. asked, astonished. Dawson shook his head. “Oh boy, you poor, deprived thing.”

“Thanks, always good to garner sympathy.” T.C. grinned.

“Sorry. What you do is count how long it is between the lightning and the thunder. Then you divide it by five and that tells you how many miles away it is.”

“Interesting,” Dawson mused. “I’ve never heard of that.”

“My mother taught it to me as soon as I learned how to divide. Helped me learn math, that’s for sure.”

“So you were one of those children that was always fascinated by the weather?”

“You could say that. Wow, look at that one!”

“I’m the complete opposite. I was the type of kid that would run and hide in his parents’ bed.”

“This is great! You’ve got a perfect view of the storm over the creek.”

“Or, depending on your age, an absolutely terrifying view of the storm.”

“Right. Is that my phone?” she asked as a quick ring of the telephone intruded on their tranquillity of watching the storm together. Dawson shook his head.

“No, that’s ours,” he replied, reaching across the couch to the cordless telephone sitting on the end table. “Hello?…Anyone there?…Hello?” He pressed the Off button and returned the phone to its place on the table.

“No one there.”

“Bizarre,” T.C. replied, still fascinated by the storm. The phone rang again and she gave it the evil eye, annoyed that it had interrupted her once more.

“Hello?” Dawson said, this time with much less patience. “Hello?…Look, this isn’t funny.” His finger was poised over the Off button when a shrill scream emanated from the receiver. “Hello?” he repeated, instantaneously bringing the receiver back to his ear.

“Dawson!” the voice cried. “Dawson, oh my God, Dawson!”

“Jen? Is that you?” He could hear a loud banging sound in the background. “Jen, are you all right?”

“Help! He’s trying to kill me! He’s got a knife and – oh my God!” Jen screamed. “He’s breaking down the door!”

“Dawson, what’s going on?” T.C. cried insistently. “Dawson?”

“Who, Jen?” Dawson demanded, ignoring T.C.

“Dawson! Help!” she cried, her voice cracking with fear. He heard a violent shattering in the background and the sound of wood splintering. “He’s coming into my room! Oh my god, please don’t! Please don’t!” he heard her beg. “Don’t kill me, don’t kill me.”

“Jen! Are you still there?” he cried, pounding on the wall in frustration. “Jen!”

“Help! Call someone!” she cried one final time. “Call-” “Jen!” he screamed. He strained to hear her voice again, but he could only make out more banging and a few blood-curling shrieks, followed by complete silence. “Jen! Pick up the phone! Pick up the phone!” He turned to T.C. “We have to help Jen!”

“Where is she?” T.C. demanded, slipping on her shoes. Dawson did likewise, struggling with the shoelaces on his left sneaker.

“Right next door. The killer’s in her house.”

“Let me get my gun,” T.C. said as she dashed into the kitchen and retrieved her purse. She rustled through it quickly, throwing papers and other various items to the floor in her search for her weapon. While in Capeside, she decided she would blend better with the locals by toting her gun in her purse instead of on her hip as she normally did. However, in a time like this, she was beginning to wish that she hadn’t been so concerned with image. “Hurry,” Dawson urged. “We have to help her.”

“Why?” a cool, indistinguishable voice demanded. Dawson jumped a mile before he realized that the voice was coming from the receiver still pressed to his ear and not from behind him.

“What? Who’s this?” he asked in bewilderment. T.C. ignored him and continued her search for her gun. After a few more seconds, she found it at the bottom of her purse and quickly checked that all the chambers were loaded.

“I believe I’ll ask the questions here,” the voice said menacingly.

“What happened to Jen?” Dawson inquired, still confused as to what was going on. T.C. began motioning to Dawson to hang up the phone so that they could go help Jen.

“I said that I’d ask the questions, Mr. Leery.” Dawson froze.

“How did you know my name?” he managed to eke out. “Who are you?”

“Your worst nightmare, Dawson. It’s not over yet. If you thought what happened so far was bad, wait until you see what else I’ve got in store.” Dawson gasped audibly, sending T.C. rushing to his side.

“Dawson, hang up the phone,” T.C. urged, clasping his shoulder. “Hang up right now.”

“What happened to Jen?” he said, his voice trembling. The killer laughed again; this time, however, it was more of a giggle than something meant to inspire fear.

“I’m not sure. See, I had this knife in my hand and it kind of jumped out and started stabbing her. Very odd. She appears to be bleeding to death rather slowly and painfully, from what I can tell. May I take a message for you?”

“You bastard! You killed her!” Dawson cried, holding back a sob. “You killed her!”

“Actually,” the killer said with a smile evident in his voice. “She’s not dead yet, so I technically didn’t kill her. She’s still breathing, although not for more than a few additional minutes. Perhaps I shall take her to the hospital myself. Do you think that would be a good idea, Mr. Leery?”

“Don’t you dare touch her,” Dawson commanded. T.C. continued to shake his arm.

“Dawson, get off the phone right now,” she ordered. “Hang up.”

“Well, I think it’s a little late to tell me not to touch her,” the voice replied, laughing menacingly. “Yes, I think I will take her to the hospital. But I’m afraid that I didn’t bring my car, so I’ll have to do it on foot.”

“You can’t make it to the hospital on foot. Especially not carrying someone else,” Dawson said, not quite understanding what the killer was trying to do.

“My point exactly. Did you really think that I’d try to save Jen? Have a nice day, Mr. Leery, and watch your back. I have my eye on you.” And with that, the line went dead. Dawson could do nothing but stare at it.

“Dawson? Dawson! Earth to Dawson!” T.C. said, shaking him furiously. “Why didn’t you hang up when I told you to?”

“He -- he killed Jen,” Dawson replied, still in disbelief. “The bastard just killed her and he started talking to me on the phone like it was nothing. He killed her.”

“I know that already. Come on, we have to see if we can help her. Dial 9-1-1 and leave the phone on the table,” she commanded, rushing to the front door. “Move it, Dawson!” He quickly dialed the number and slammed the phone on the table, then raced out the door right behind T.C. into the pouring rain.

“It’s that one there!” he shouted in order to be heard over the wind and the thunder echoing across the sky.

“What?” she shouted back, stopping to look at him. She wiped the water off her forehead and shielded her eyes in order to see Dawson through the pelting rain.

He pointed to Jen’s house again, mouthing something that T.C. couldn’t understand because of the noise of the storm. She understood the gesture, however, and the two of them sprinted to the screen door leading to the back porch. They took shelter under the roof of the porch, grateful for the relief from the storm.

“What now?” Dawson inquired, staring nervously at the house.

“Well, I’d prefer just to secure the house and wait until he comes out, but by the time backup arrives, it could be too late for Jen,” T.C. said, staring out at the rain-swollen creek. “Did Jen say where she was in the house?” Dawson nodded.

“Where?”

“In her room.”

“What’s the quickest way up there?”

“Go down the hall to the stairs and it’s the first door on the right after you’ve climbed them.” T.C. glanced around her.

“Okay. I’m going to go up there. You wait here.”

“Not by myself,” he said, shaking his head vehemently.

“Fine, you can follow me, but only come when I signal to you that the coast is clear. The very last thing we need is to have you get killed too. Let’s go,” she said, carefully opening the door into the Ryan house. “Stay back there and don’t say anything,” she hissed as she stepped inside.

She glanced around the darkened house, trying to make out all of the furniture so she wouldn’t trip over it. There was only one light on in the entire house, a small table lamp in the living room at the opposite end of the hallway. T.C. was justifiably anxious; she had no idea where the killer was. She reached the staircase and carefully checked out the surrounding area.

“Dawson, come on,” she whispered, motioning him inside. He quietly walked to where she was standing at the base of the stairs. “Follow me up the stairs, but wait at the top until I give you the signal,” she ordered as she started climbing, keeping her gun extended. After they reached the landing, she inched down the hallway until she reached the first door on the right, which was closed. There was a huge hole near the knob, probably so that the killer could unlock the door and gain entry into Jen’s room.

“Are you going to open it?” Dawson inquired, causing T.C. to jump a little. He hadn’t waited for her signal like she had told him to; instead, he had followed directly behind her.

“We could, but what happens if the killer’s on the other side? We’re toast.”

“And what if he’s not and Jen dies because we’re too scared?” Dawson challenged. “She’s my friend, I need to try and save her.”

“On the count of three, then. Let me get on the left side so I can see into the room first.”

“Okay. One…two…three!” The door to Jen’s room swung open, revealing nothing but blackness and the outline of blowing trees outside her window. A brief flash of lightning illuminated the entire room, revealing a dark red stain of blood on the carpet. T.C. quickly flicked on the lights in Jen’s room. It was completely empty, although definite signs of a struggle were evident. In addition to the hole in the door, there were several dents in the wall near Jen’s window. Her dresser had been knocked over and the mirror on her wall was cracked. Near the large bloodstain in the middle of the room were several slashes in the carpet, apparently from missed stab attempts.

“Where is she?” Dawson demanded. “Where is she? Jen, where are you?”

“I don’t see her in here, although she and the killer were here at one point. What a struggle,” she said, shaking her head. “Poor thing.”

“Hey, the window’s open. Maybe Jen tried to crawl for help,” Dawson said optimistically, rushing to the window. “There’s a roof right below and it’s not far to the ground from there.” T.C. joined him and peered out into the blackness of the storm.

“I don’t think she could crawl if she lost that much blood. She’s got to be around here somewhere,” she said, turning back to survey the room.

“Hey! Hey!” Dawson screamed. “Come back here! “T.C. whirled around just in time to see him climb out the window.

“Dawson! What are you doing?!” she demanded, leaning out so she could see him.

“Look!” he said, pointing across the yard. T.C. squinted, but could only see the rain and the blowing trees. “See? Right by the dock!” She looked again and saw a dark figure streaking across the lawn toward the dock. He was carrying what appeared to be a body and had it slung over his shoulder. “Jen!” Dawson cried again, running down the slippery roof, barely staying upright. T.C. rushed out after him. The two of them leaped simultaneously to the Ryan’s lawn from the roof of the porch and sprinted after the shadowy figure.

“Stop! Police!” T.C. shouted, firing a warning gunshot into the air. The figure ignored her and threw the body into a waiting rowboat. He jumped into the boat as well and started rowing farther and farther out into the creek. “Stop or I’ll shoot!” she warned again, shooting again into the dark sky. She and Dawson reached the dock a few moments after the killer’s boat was nothing more than a shadow in the pouring rain.

So now the killer’s eliminated Jen…who’s next? Joey? Pacey? Dawson? T.C.? Steve? Or will someone finally figure out who’s behind the deaths and lock him (or her!) up for good? Only time will tell!

If you feel so inclined, I would worship you always if you voted for me in the Creeker’s Choice Awards Feel free to nominate IKWYDLS in any category you believe fits the story. If you’d like a hint or some more information on IKWYDLS, please visit the IKWYDLS page. Thank you!