Текст книги "Game"

Автор книги: Barry Lyga

Соавторы: Barry Lyga
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

CHAPTER 43

With a half hour still to go to the airport, Howie finally stopped checking the rearview mirror for the flashing lights and sirens of Lobo’s Nod’s finest.

“I think they believed me,” Connie said quietly.

“Would you really cut them off if they narced on you?”

“I don’t know.”

She had been quiet the whole way, arms folded over her chest, staring moodily out the window. He was trying to think of something very stupid and very funny to say—his usual tactic—when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Since his mom worried about her baby boy talking on the phone while driving, she’d installed a really kick-ass hands-free system in his car roughly ten seconds after he’d bought it, so at the same moment, a pleasant and very sexy robotic voice said, “Phone call. Jazz Matazz.” Howie had put Jazz into his contacts list that way because he liked the way the speakerphone said “Jazzmatazz.”

Connie perked up in the passenger seat for the first time since they’d left her house. “Whatever you do—” she started, but Howie had already hit Answer.

“Jazz Matazz!” he cried out.

“Does that dumb thing still call me that?”

“Of course not. I was just funning with you.”

“What are you up to?”

Next to him, Connie shook her head wildly and cut her hands back and forth in the universal “No!” gesture.

“I’m driving Connie to the airport.”

“What?”

“Jesus, Howie!” Connie exploded.

“Connie,” Jazz said from the speakerphone, “where are you headed? Back here?”

“Yeah,” she said, glaring at Howie.

“Don’t.”

“Well, I need to—”

When Jazz spoke again, it was in a voice so cold and so commanding that for a moment Howie thought maybe Billy Dent had grabbed the phone at the other end. “Do not come to New York. This isn’t something we’re talking about. Just turn around and go home. Howie, I need your help with something.”

Howie risked a look over at Connie, whose eyes had grown wide with fury, her lips pressed together as if to keep from breathing out flames.

“Um… sure, man, but you should know—”

“I don’t know how to download apps on my phone,” Jazz said with peculiar urgency.

Howie laughed nervously. “Is that really an issue right now?”

“I need a specific one. I’m pretty sure it exists. Can you walk me through it?”

“Jazz, this is kinda—” To his right, Connie was now back in arms-over-chest mode, glaring through the window.

“Please!” from the speaker.

“Fine, fine. What do you need?”

He told him. Completely confused, Howie nonetheless explained how to locate and download the app in question.

“Thanks,” Jazz said. “You’re gonna turn around and go home now, right? I’m counting on you. And Connie? Con?”

Howie studied her grim posture. “Now’s not a real good time, buddy. From the looks of things, you won’t be getting laid for a long, long time.”

“Con, I know you can hear me. I get that you’re pissed. But I’m in the middle of some crazy stuff here, and at least knowing that you’re safe keeps me going. All right? I love you.”

There was silence on the line as he waited for her to say it back. When she said nothing, the line went dead.

“You could have talked to him,” Howie said after a few minutes.

“Did you hear that voice he used with me?” she asked. “He went all Billy on me. I won’t tolerate that.”

Howie signaled and shifted lanes.

“What are you doing?” Connie demanded. “Are you getting off the highway?”

“Well… yeah. You heard him. I’m gonna turn around and—”

“You’re doing no such thing.”

“But—”

“A butt is something I’m gonna kick if you keep this up,” Connie said. “He doesn’t know what’s going on here. I’m going to track down this mystery person and help him whether he wants it or not.”

Howie watched an exit ramp go by. He could always turn at the next one….

Oh, who was he kidding?

“At least call him. Tell him what’s going on.”

“When he’s like this? When he’s all crazy like this? No way.” She jabbed a finger at him and he flinched even though she didn’t actually touch him. “And you don’t call him, either. Once I’m on that plane, he can’t stop me. No one can. And if he knows I’m on it, he’ll freak out and get all distracted, and with everything that’s going on, being distracted could get him killed.”

“Fine. Fine.” The next exit, it turned out, was for the airport. Howie guided the car down the ramp. “But are you sure about this? It could be dangerous.” Even as he said it, Howie felt idiotic. A mysterious voice was seducing Connie into traveling to New York. Manipulating her. Of course it was dangerous. Either Billy Dent or someone like him was at the other end of that phone call. “Maybe you should just let the cops handle this.”

“What, the NYPD? They have their hands full already with the Hat-Dog Killer. This is personal. I’ll go to New York. Find this clue at JFK, then get to Jazz. Show him what we’ve got, what we know. In the meantime, just to be safe and cover all the bases…” She twisted around in the car seat and retrieved the lockbox from the backseat. “I want you to wait until my flight is off the ground and then take this to the sheriff.”

“Got it. Will do. Sammy J and I will hold down the fort here in the Nod,” Howie promised.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Connie turning to stare at him. “What?” he asked defensively. He knew that look—it was Connie’s Guilt Glare, usually employed when he said or did something stupid or offensive or both. “What did I do?”

“What did you just say?” she asked, her tone insistent, with an undercurrent of panic.

“I said I’ll hold down the fort with Sam. We be keepin’ it one hundred, dawg. We’ll keep Gramma cool; we’ll check in with G. William to see if the cops learn anything else from that lockbox; we’ll—”

“No. Exactly. What did you say exactly?” Before he could recall his exact words, she filled him in: “You said ‘Sammy J and I.’ Sammy J.”

“Right. It’s just a nickname.” Howie signaled and pulled off the highway onto the access road that led to the airport. “It’s what they called her when she was a kid.”

“And doesn’t Sammy J sound like someone else we know?”

Traffic was light, so Howie risked taking his eyes off the road. Connie strained against her shoulder belt, leaning toward him intensely, staring as if she could burn the answer into him with her eyes. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “Why are you all freaked out all of a sudden? It’s just a nickname.”

“Sammy J. J,” she said, emphasizing the last letter.

The connection clicked. “Jesus, Connie. You think Sammy J is Ugly J? Just because they share an initial? That’s crazy.”

“I’ll tell you what’s crazy: Auto-Tuning your voice if there’s no reason to. Billy wouldn’t do it because I already know who he is. The only reason for someone else to disguise it—”

“Is if you know the voice already,” Howie interrupted. “But you’ve never met Sam.”

“Or to disguise your gender,” Connie told him. “And yeah, I’ve never met her, but I might. As long as she’s in town, staying at Jazz’s, the odds are I would meet her. And hear her voice.”

“That’s nuts,” Howie said in a tone that wasn’t convincing even to him.

“Who’s new to town who I haven’t met yet, but probably will at some point? Who’s the only person in this whole mess who would have a reason to disguise her voice from me?”

“You’re assuming a lot. I mean, Mr. Auto-Tune—”

“Or Ms. Auto-Tune.”

“—could be anyone. I mean, maybe he—or she,” he amended quickly, “is just worried that you’re recording your conversations. Or just doesn’t want you to be able to identify him or her by voice someday. Or…”

“You can keep throwing ‘or’ out there as much as you want, but face it—the most likely scenario is that it’s someone known to me. Or to us. Maybe that’s not one hundred percent guaranteed, but come on, Howie.”

Howie hated to admit it, but she had a point. And all he could think of, suddenly, was the photo album Gramma had showed him. The pictures of Sam as a little girl. I was a late bloomer….

“We know Billy had a confederate out there,” Connie went on. “Someone who coordinated his escape from Wammaket. Someone who was in contact with the Impressionist. What if it was his sister?”

Howie shook his head. “No. I don’t buy it.”

“Because you want to sleep with her.”

“That’s beside the point. I don’t buy it because Sam hates Billy. You should see her when he comes up. She despises that guy. Jesus, she said in public that she would pull the lever if they executed him.”

“Yeah, and I just told my parents that I would never speak to them again if they called the cops on me. I sounded serious enough that they didn’t.”

Howie said nothing as he guided the car into the drop-off lane and stopped. “God,” he said at last. “Have I been macking on a serial killer’s right-hand man? Woman? Are there even… is there even such a thing?”

“I think so. Jazz mentioned one once. Some woman in England, I think. Sam could be a serial killer.”

“Watch it. That’s the mother of my illegitimate children you’re talking about.”

“Howie.”

“But really—what are the odds of a brother and sister serial-killing tag team?”

“Same parents. Same genetics. Same environment. I don’t know the odds, but it’s not impossible.”

“How do we find out? Do we just ask her?”

“Not a chance. There’s got to be some way to find out without confronting her directly.”

“I’ll ask Gramma,” Howie joked.

“Hell, what if she’s involved? I was thinking that before—what if she’s been faking all this Alzheimer’s crap, hiding in plain sight?”

“No way, Connie. Uh-uh. You haven’t been around her as much as I have. Trust me—the woman’s nuts. And not in the way you mean. Not in like an evil mastermind–slash–Hannibal Lecter kind of way. She’s completely off her rocker. Sometimes Jazz has to change her adult diaper, for God’s sake. You think she’s gonna go through that just to keep up a cover story?”

They sat in silent thought in the car, staring at each other until a horn honking from behind them brought them out of their reverie.

“Maybe I should stay here….” Connie said hesitantly, almost unwillingly.

“No. Go to New York. Figure out this bell thing. Get the other clue. This stuff is all connected. What’s happening in New York is connected to what’s happening here. You work the New York angle with Jazz and I’ll figure out what’s going on here.”

“Are you sure?” She was worried, that much was obvious. Howie didn’t blame her; he was worried, too. He sort of liked being alive. He also thought Sam was hot and it would really suck if she turned out to be crazy like her brother.

“Sure? No. But go.” He popped her lock and the horn from behind blared again. “You better get going. And for God’s sake, be careful! There’s crazy-bad juju going down.”

“Howie…”

“I’m serious, for once. Now go. It’ll be all right. I’m not as fragile as I look.”

“I know. That’s the problem—you’re more fragile.”

“This is true.” He leaned over impulsively and kissed her cheek. “Get out of here. You have a flight to catch.”

Once she was through security, Connie had to run for her plane, boarding right before the door closed. She apologized to her row mates and slid into her middle seat.

Was she doing the right thing? She had left Howie—Howie!—completely unprotected, with Gramma, who was crazy enough for any three people, and Samantha, who quite possibly could be crazy, too. Even though he’d encouraged her to go, was it the right thing to do?

She dug into her purse. Howie was right. Time to set aside pride (no matter how righteous) and anger (ditto) and call Jazz. See what he thought. Didn’t it make more sense for him to go to JFK, after all? Sure, it would be a distraction from the Hat-Dog Killer, but Howie was right—these cases were interconnected. It was all interconnected, as cables stretched from the past to the present, from Lobo’s Nod to New York, entangling and binding all of them: Jazz, Billy, Sam, Howie, the Hat-Dog Killer, the Impressionist, Connie herself, the victims…. She couldn’t untangle the knots just yet and see where they’d come from, but she knew they were all connected.

“Miss, no electronic devices,” a flight attendant said just as Connie hit the Call button under Jazz’s name.

“But—”

“Off, please. Now.” Said with a grim little smile that seemed to broadcast Try me, sister.

Connie ended the call before the first ring, then made a show of shutting down her phone. Now she had the entire flight to think about how she might have sent Howie to his death.

And how she might be voluntarily winging her way to her own.

By five that evening, Jazz’s hotel room looked like an evidence locker had exploded inside a math classroom.

But he had the answer. It all worked out.

He stared at the new app on his phone, then shifted over to the sheet of paper covered with his most recent scribbles. Yeah. Yeah, it all made sense.

Crazy sense. But sense nonetheless. Somehow, it was fitting that Billy and G. William had said the things that made it all click for him.

Hughes had warned him away from the precinct, but this was too big.

He gathered up a few critical pieces of paper, double-checked his phone, then grabbed Belsamo’s disposable cell before heading out the door.

CHAPTER 44

The 76th Precinct was still mobbed by press. Jazz gnawed on his bottom lip, watching from half a block away. He had no choice but to plunge right in.

For a disguise, he turned up the collar of his coat and pulled his hat down low over his forehead, then slipped on his cheap sunglasses. He pushed into the throng, eyes down, jostling reporters out of the way. Two NYPD uniforms stood at the front door, keeping it clear for civilians, and they ushered him into the precinct without realizing who he was.

Morales stood just inside the front door, leaning against the wall as she swapped a high-heeled shoe for a sturdier sneaker. She recognized Jazz as he whipped off the hat and glasses. “Feeling better?” she asked, only slightly surprised to see him.

“What? Oh, yeah. Much better.” He scanned the entryway. “Got a minute?”

“Headed out,” she said, putting on the other sneaker and dropping her heels into a bag. “Field office wants a report in person, and you don’t keep the field office waiting. First rule of the FBI.”

“But—”

“First rule,” she said again, and breezed out the door.

Jazz ground his teeth together. Should he follow her? She was the one he should convince now, because there was no way Hughes would listen—

“Dent!”

Speaking of Hughes…

Jazz grinned apologetically in Hughes’s direction as the detective bulled through the lobby toward him. “Sorry! I was just leaving.” Yeah, he’d go after Morales and—

“You’re not going anywhere.” To prove it, Hughes clamped a powerful grip on Jazz’s wrist. Jazz tamped down his first reaction, to break the grip in the most painful way possible. Crippling an NYPD detective wouldn’t solve this case any sooner.

“I can go,” Jazz whispered. “Let me—”

“I told you to stay away from here.” Hughes dragged Jazz unwillingly into a smallish office. “Everyone thinks you have food poisoning. And I still haven’t figured out what to do about you after last night.”

Jazz calculated the odds of being able to persuade Hughes that he’d figured out the Hat-Dog Killer before the pissed-off cop tossed him out of the precinct. Hit him with something he won’t expect.

“Belsamo’s on Atlantic,” Jazz said, and Hughes released him immediately. He was in control right now, whether Hughes liked it or not. “There’s an Atlantic Avenue around here, right?”

If Hughes’s reaction weren’t so predictable, it would have been fascinating to watch as he visibly deflated, his face realigning from righteous anger to incredulous shock. “How do you do that?” It was as close to a whine as Jazz could imagine coming from the detective. “He’s been walking up and down Atlantic Avenue all day. Not doing anything illegal. Just walking from the river to over by Flatbush, over and over. Like he’s casing the whole avenue.”

“Not the whole avenue,” Jazz said. “He’s looking for his next dump site.”

It was raw, bloody meat to a starving wolf, and Hughes could do nothing but bite into it. “So it’s him? He’s definitely the Hat-Dog Killer?”

Jazz considered taking mercy on Hughes and just spilling it all at once. But… nah. Where was the fun in that?

“He’s not the Hat-Dog Killer,” Jazz said with authority, and watched the shock return to Hughes’s face, along with a soul-crushing distress.

Jazz gave it a couple of seconds to sink in, then said, “He’s the Dog Killer.”

“There can’t be two of them,” Hughes said. “We’ve been through this already. We considered that months ago and had to discard it. We’ve got DNA from various scenes and it’s all a match. It’s one guy.”

“You found that DNA because they wanted you to find it,” Jazz explained. “They planted it. To make it look like one guy was doing this. This is a game and there are two players: Hat and Dog. You have Dog’s DNA. So even if you catch him, Hat is still free and clear.”

Jazz could imagine it perfectly, as though he’d been eavesdropping on the phone call. It must have been a panicked call, from Dog to Billy, the games master.

“There’s a problem.” Dog would have done his best to cover his worry with calm and reserve. Because that was how Billy would have taught him to act.

“I don’t like problems.” Jazz imagined Billy saying it jovially, with a slight lilt to his voice. A dad ruffling his kid’s hair after a tough Little League at bat. “Why don’t you fill me in and we’ll see what we can do.”

“I didn’t realize. Until I came home. But… he scratched me.”

“What?”

“I have a scratch. On my hand.”

“Didn’t you wear gloves?”

“Yes. The scratch is high up on the hand. Over the wrist. He must have clawed down the glove. I didn’t expect it. He fought like a bitch, not a man. I didn’t realize until just now….”

And Billy would sigh, resigned to working with amateurs. “Okay. Okay, let me think. Let me think.”

“They have my DNA now.”

“I know. That’s not actually a problem. Evidence is only good when you have something to compare it to.”

“So we make sure they never have anything to compare it to?”

And Jazz could hear the familiar chuckle emanating deep within Billy’s chest, low and rumbly. “No. Are you kidding me? That’s what they expect. No. We want to make sure they have something to compare it to….”

“It’s a game,” Jazz told Hughes. “And Billy’s playing, but he’s not on any one side or another. There are three players, but only two sides, you see? But there’s a game on top of the game—Hat and Dog are playing each other with Billy watching them, but at the same time, Billy’s playing with us. Four players. Three sides.”

Hughes wiped down his face with both hands. “Jasper, our forensic people are really good. Every criminal makes a mistake, and when they do, we find them.”

“Exactly! Don’t you get it? That’s what Billy was counting on. Look.” He held up a sheet of paper on which he’d plotted the evidence found at the various crime scenes. “You had no DNA evidence at all until the fourth victim, the guy found at the subway station on, what was it, Pennsylvania and Liberty Avenues, right? That’s when you found some blood and skin cells under the victim’s fingernails.”

“Right. And then we found semen at the sixth crime scene—”

“But not the fifth! That was a Hat crime. The sixth victim was Dog’s first woman. Raped because he had to make it look like one guy, not two. Hat rapes and Dog doesn’t, but for you guys not to catch on, they occasionally had to mimic each other. Dog raped the sixth victim and was so disgusted with himself that he had to reduce her to something less than human—that’s why he disemboweled her. Then Hat had to keep it up. Every time one of them added something to the signature, the other one had to pick it up and run with it.”

“That’s crazy. He deliberately left evidence—”

“It’s so crazy that it worked. Dog was giving DNA to Hat—hairs, semen samples—and letting him plant them so that you guys would think there was one guy, the Hat-Dog Killer, not two, Hat and Dog.”

“If they’re playing a game, what kind of game is it? And why would Belsamo voluntarily walk into—” He broke off at the enormity of Jazz’s grin. Jazz silently lifted his cell phone and held it up to Hughes. A bright Monopoly board filled the screen.

“Jasper, no!” Hughes groaned. “Park Place… that’s just a name. It’s not—”

“I’ve got it on my phone. I bet Belsamo has it on his laptop, in the folder titled Game. They’re playing Monopoly,” Jazz insisted, now shoving another paper at Hughes. “Hat and Dog. Two of the player pieces in the game. They carve their symbol into the victims to prove they did it. First two victims, remember? Found behind some place called Connecticut Bagel. Well, both killers started at Go and rolled nines. Bang. Connecticut Avenue. Third victim, in an empty parking space. Free Parking. That’s a Hat. They take turns. Fourth victim, first DNA: a rail stop on Pennsylvania Avenue. That’s the Pennsylvania Railroad, man.”

Hughes scanned the paper, but Jazz could tell he was being humored, not believed. “They don’t always alternate. There are two hats in a row.”

“Right. He rolled doubles, so he got to go again.”

Hughes uttered a single syllable of laughter, without mirth or joy. “So let me get this straight: You think your dad has got these guys playing a game of murder Monopoly, killing people or dumping them based on where they land on the Monopoly board?”

“Follow them. Each murder matches a spot on the board in some way. I did the math—every murder is reachable by a roll of the dice from the one before it… if you assume there’s two players. Look—Park Place,” Jazz said, jabbing a finger at the paper. “A murder at the Coney Island boardwalk.”

“I told you—those are just coincidences. Do you know what apophenia is?” Hughes asked, somewhat paternally.

“Yes.” Apophenia was a form of insanity that made people see patterns where there were none, or imbue meaningless patterns with great import. Like crazy conspiracy theorists. “I know what it is. But this isn’t—”

“Finding these ridiculous patterns… stretching this to fit a board game, of all things… I’m worried about you. Maybe we pushed you too—”

“It’s not apophenia if the pattern’s real,” Jazz protested. “Look, it’s not important that it’s Monopoly. It could have been anything. All that matters is that they have some kind of structure. It could have been checkers or chess, but Billy would find that too simple. Cliché. Everyone does chess, he would say.” Hughes shivered, and Jazz realized that—without intending to—he had once again done his dead-on Billy impression. “This is more like… like reverse apophenia.”

“Oh, really?” Hughes folded his arms over his chest.

“Yeah. It’s not seeing a pattern where there is none—it’s hiding a pattern where there doesn’t have to be one. These guys don’t need a Monopoly board to kill people. They would do it anyway. He’s just making them dance.”

In the face of Hughes’s obvious skepticism, Jazz pressed on. “Two murders with the guts left in KFC buckets? Kentucky Avenue. Dog did one, rolling a six to get there. Later, Hat rolled a five and landed on the same spot. One of the other cops even mentioned it. You were there: The nearest KFC was a mile away. Why bring the bucket and do it twice? Hell of a lot easier than transporting the body all the way to the nearest KFC, right? They only move bodies when they have to, in order to comply with the rules of the game.” Hughes said nothing, so Jazz kept going. “He left that body on the S line in Manhattan because—”

“—it’s the shortest line,” Hughes mumbled. “Short Line Railroad.” The detective’s finger skipped down the page. “Saint James… the church. Right…”

“And look at where Belsamo landed right before coming into the precinct.”

Hughes skimmed the list and looked up, puzzled. “Community Chest?”

“He drew the Get out of Jail Free card.” Jazz grinned triumphantly.

“But he wasn’t in—”

“Right. So Billy had to send him in. He had to put him right in the precinct. Remember what he told you guys in the interrogation room? That if he lied he knew he would go directly to jail? It’s right out of the game, a direct quote. Billy sent him in so that he could play the Get out of Jail Free card and keep playing the game.”

Hughes took a step back, exhaling a long, shuddery breath. “Jasper, this is… this is nuts. You know that, right?” He favored Jazz with a look Jazz had by now gotten used to, a look that said, I knew this kid would snap someday.

“Hat left the body on the Short Line, on the S,” Jazz said. “Then Dog got the Get Out of Jail Free card and came in to confess. Billy probably promised him it wouldn’t last. If he’d gotten—I don’t know—the beauty pageant card, he would have killed a model. But he didn’t. So it was a calculated gamble on Billy’s part: Belsamo could have botched his whole confession act. Or maybe you guys could have really cracked him and led us to Hat. Hell, Hat could have even been caught dumping the body at Baltic.” Hughes said nothing, so Jazz kept talking. “But Billy himself was never at risk, so it was a gamble worth taking. Especially since it meant he got to mess with your heads. He knew we already had Dog’s DNA, so if he was going to sacrifice either of his players, it would be Dog anyway. Plus, he knew Belsamo was either so unhinged or so good at playing unhinged—I don’t know which yet—that he would give us nothing worthwhile. Plus, he had a secret weapon: Hat. We didn’t know there were two killers. And then the dice helped Billy tremendously. Hat rolled an eight and ended up on Baltic. So close, it was perfect.”

“So he left a body at the corner of Henry and Baltic, four blocks from the precinct, to alibi Dog.” Hughes thumped the wall with the flat of his palm. “Really? All of these coincidences just pile up into a plan? You want me to believe that Billy Dent, the most meticulous lunatic in history, lets a roll of the dice determine what happens next?”

“Of course he does!” Jazz exploded. “He doesn’t care about these guys! It’s a game, and they’re just pieces on the board. This amuses him. He saw a way to march Belsamo right in here under our noses and then right back out again, so he took it. If Hat hadn’t rolled an eight, Billy would have come up with something else. You cannot imagine…” He took a deep breath and started again. “You can’t begin to imagine the contempt he holds for you guys. He respects you as a group, as a collective with resources that can stop him, but individually? You’re all pathetic, stupid fumblers, groping in the dark for clues.”

Hughes raised an eyebrow. “That your daddy talking or you?”

“I’m trying to help you!” Jazz couldn’t believe this. He couldn’t believe Hughes wasn’t with him. “I’ve got it all worked out, right down to the next dump site! When Billy called me, he said the number nine, then five and four. So he’s rolling for these guys. He rolled a five and four, which adds up to nine.” He held up the cell phone Monopoly app again. “Nine spaces from Community Chest is Atlantic Avenue, Hughes. That’s where Belsamo—Dog—will leave his next victim.”

“But you talked to him!” Hughes said. “He knows you know the number nine is next, so why wouldn’t he just change it?”

“Look,” Jazz said patiently, “the fact that Belsamo is casing dump sites on Atlantic Avenue tells you that he’s still on the board and planning on moving to the same spot. He still rolled a nine. So, what? Billy called him back on a different phone and gave him the number.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Why not change it up? To mess with us?”

“Because Billy knows I know the number nine, but he doesn’t know that I know what it means. And he doesn’t think I’ll figure it out. As far as he knows, I still think Hat and Dog are the same guy. Besides, I’m getting the feeling… the way he risked sending Belsamo in here, I’m getting the feeling that Billy’s getting tired of the game. He’s ready for it to end, and maybe Belsamo’s the loser.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Hughes asked. “Ending the game, I mean? When the game ends, the killing stops.”

Jazz shook his head. “This is Billy. I think once the game ends, that’s when the real trouble begins.”