Текст книги "Game"

Автор книги: Barry Lyga

Соавторы: Barry Lyga
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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

CHAPTER 56

Connie’s cabbie said nothing until they pulled onto the highway.

“Good thing not a little colder,” he said abruptly. “All this be snow.” He gestured through the windshield.

Connie nodded. That would suck. Being stuck out here by the airport, waiting for plows. Ugh.

She vaguely remembered that when Hughes had driven them to Brooklyn, it had taken almost an hour, so she knew she had some time. She dug into the laptop bag and produced the Costner picture, staring at it. Costner wore a three-piece suit and pointed a gun right at her. Was that the clue? A gun in the bag and then another gun in a picture…? Both fake guns, of course… Was the Costner picture because Mr. Auto-Tune knew that Connie wanted to be an actor? And if so, what was the message? This whole scavenger hunt seemed handcrafted specifically for her, so what did two fake guns and a picture of an actor mean?

Two guns…

When in doubt, check the Internet. She Googled two guns, but got nothing helpful. Some kind of band, an Old West feature in Arizona, and a comic book character called “The Two-Gun Kid.” Really helpful.

Then she punched Costner into Google. She tapped on some of the links, skimmed his Wikipedia entry. Then, for the hell of it, she tried Costner serial killer.

A movie called Mr. Brooks came up. Connie’s eyes widened as she read the description. In the movie, Costner played a sociopath. A Billy Dent type, who went around killing people and even mentored a wannabe serial killer.

That makes some kind of sense. Is Mr. Auto-Tune the Hat-Dog Killer? Is it Billy’s new protégé?

But according to Jazz, Billy had always said that Jazz was his protégé.

Wait. Maybe it’s not Costner. Maybe it’s the role he’s playing in this picture. She compared the image on her phone for Mr. Brooks to the clipping. Costner looked much younger in the clipping, at least ten or twenty years, so she went back to Wikipedia and started looking at older movies.

“Okay to take Atlantic?” the cabbie asked suddenly.

She looked up. They were stuck in traffic and had barely moved since the last time she’d paid attention, almost a half hour ago. At this rate, she would get to the hotel sometime tomorrow morning.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Connie said, returning her attention to her phone. And then she found it. The clipping of Costner had been cut from a printout of the poster for the movie The Untouchables.

Kevin Costner had played an FBI agent. Eliot Ness.

This was it. It had to be. It was a clue with multiple levels, designed to lead Connie to this moment, to this name. Eliot Ness. First, the image of Costner led her to Mr. Brooks, assuring her that she was on the right path. Then to Eliot Ness. Was there a further step? Was there something in Ness’s history? Or was Ness himself the clue?

She switched over to Google Maps and punched in Ness. Maybe it was a street name in New York or—

A pin dropped onto the map, spearing an intersection in Brooklyn. Ness Paper Manufacturing, it said.

Connie slid the map around and realized that the glowing blue dot representing her position wasn’t far from the Ness Paper pin. “Hey!” she said to the cabbie. “Can you take me to…” She glanced back down at the phone and read off the intersection.

The cabbie did another one-shoulder shrug and blurted something in Hindi. Probably telling whoever was at the other end of the Bluetooth headset that the crazy girl was changing her mind.

Shortly, the cab pulled up to the intersection. “Where?” the driver asked, and Connie realized he wanted to know which corner to drop her off at.

“Doesn’t matter. Here is fine.” She shoved some money through the little slot in the plastic shield between her and the driver, then hauled her bags out into the cold, relentless rain. Gross.

“Hey, can you stick around for, like, two minutes?” she asked, but the driver—with that inscrutable single-shoulder shrug—just took off into the night. “Oh, terrific.”

Some people milled about under umbrellas, but the streets were almost completely empty. Connie held the laptop bag over her head and stared up at the façade of the Ness Paper building. It looked like every other random building. Nothing exotic or strange about it. There were two large truck bays, closed off with corrugated garage doors, and a flight of steps leading up to a single door illuminated by a bright cone of light from a security lamp. The place was clearly closed.

“Good job, Conscience,” she muttered. The rain chilled down to her bones and then dug deeper.

She turned, looking up and down both streets at the intersection. Cars whizzed by, but no cabs that she could see. She was just about to dig out her phone and look for the nearest subway station when she noticed it, right across the street from the Ness building.

It was just another Brooklyn tenement, notable only due to its severely ramshackle appearance. It was the sort of building they showed in movies to communicate to the audience that you were in a bad part of town, though as near as Connie could tell, this part of Brooklyn wasn’t particularly scary. The building was almost out of place here, its face scarred and pitted, then made up garishly with layers of graffiti.

Only one graffito had caught her attention, though. New, she could tell, or at least newer than the rest because it overlaid them:

Almost as though she couldn’t help herself, Connie stepped off the curb and walked across the street, stepping carefully over a puddle as she went.

CHAPTER 57

Jazz couldn’t move. Harsh static buzzed in his ears. A lake of blood spread along his left flank, and that entire side of his body flamed with pain. He couldn’t even tell where he’d been shot—it could have been anywhere inside the creeping red stain that stretched from his waist to mid-thigh.

Why? he asked no one in the confines of his head. Why?

And then another of the flat cracks dragged Jazz’s attention away from his own pain. Morales was down on the floor, still. A man crouched over her, slightly winded, and Jazz realized—they’d struggled. For the gun. The man had come up behind them. Morales hadn’t shot him. Not on purpose, at least.

“Good,” said Belsamo. “Nicely done.”

“Shut up!” the other man said, pointing Morales’s gun at him. “Shut your mouth!”

Now Dog looked just as confused as Jazz felt. The scene swam before Jazz’s vision, watery, indistinct. He wondered if he was going to pass out and was surprised by how cleanly and clinically he could examine himself right now. Pulse racing. Skin a little cold and clammy. Am I going into shock? Don’t go into shock, Jazz. You’re no good to anyone then.

Thank God Morales had had her backup weapon out. It was a light caliber—a nine-millimeter—not the full .40-caliber load her service weapon held. He knew he had a decent chance at surviving this gunshot wound without too much permanent damage. In most shootings, the victim did himself as much harm as the bullet, if not more: Thrashing around when shot only made you bleed more. And the shock of being shot often sent victims into cardiac arrest or caused further bleeding from an accelerated heart rate.

So when you get shot, Jazz, just fall down, nice and calm. Just keep cool.

Yeah, right.

He forced himself to draw in a long breath and then let it out slowly. Connie had once tried to teach him yoga breathing, which he’d found annoying and unnatural, but right about now, he was up for whatever would keep him alive.

Morales wasn’t moving. There was a hole in her blazer, but no blood that Jazz could see. He was pretty sure the FBI vest could stop such a small caliber even at such close range. She would have had the wind knocked out of her and would have a hell of a bruise. He’d heard of people going into cardiac arrest just from the impact, though, even with a bulletproof vest on, but Morales seemed to be breathing normally. Knocked out when she hit the floor?

A surging wave of agony suddenly crashed upward from his leg and Jazz hissed in a breath. Forget Morales for now. He was shot.

He tuned back into the rest of the world for a moment and realized that Belsamo and the newcomer were arguing, going back and forth as though there weren’t two wounded people and a growing puddle of blood on the floor between them. Dog’s voice was flat and affectless, as though everything outside of his own skin was merely a curiosity. The newcomer spoke with heat, anger. Passion.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Belsamo said with an almost autistic precision. “The rules clearly state that unless told to, we are not to be here at the same—”

“Shut up!” the other man shouted. “Just shut up about the rules! Do you have any idea what’s happening here? Do you? You just had to be sloppy, didn’t you? Had to leave your tributes to Ugly J everywhere. Idiot.”

Jazz’s vision began to clear, just a bit. He was almost directly between the two men, still inside unit 83F. Morales was inside, too, having been knocked into it during her tussle.

Her gun. That hand-cannon in her shoulder rig. If I can get to it…

It was no more than a few feet to her, but right now it looked like a marathon.

Just then, the overhead light in the hallway flickered to life for the space of two or three seconds and Jazz could see the face of the man with the gun. His gut turned in on itself, writhing and twisting. He knew this man.

Duncan Hershey. The very first man the task force had interviewed based on the FBI profile. Jazz had a potent flash of watching the interrogation, of watching him drink a cup of water and surrender that same cup.

Of course. He didn’t care if we had his DNA because he knew it wouldn’t match Dog’s. Dog’s Get out of Jail Free might as well have been Hat’s, too.

“You’re the other one,” Jazz said, unable to help himself. “You’re Hat. We had you.”

Hershey snarled and didn’t even bother to look in Jazz’s direction as he spoke. “You had nothing. A ghost, a vapor. Nothing more. Quite possibly much less. And by the by, I’m not Hat. Not anymore. That was just my name in the game.” His lips quirked into something Jazz imagined was supposed to approximate a grin, but was more of a leer. “The game is over now. I won.”

“The game isn’t over,” Belsamo said again in that peculiarly emotionless voice. Still, Jazz could tell Dog was worried. “It’s still my move. I still—”

“This has nothing to do with you!” Hat snapped. “Don’t you get it? You were never in contention. Not really. You were just there to temper me. Anvil to my blade. Nothing more. A tool. Used. Used up. Discarded. Do you really not understand this?”

Jazz swallowed, his throat barely working. The pain from his leg—it was definitely his leg that had been hit, he knew now; all the pain radiated from his thigh—had cranked up, as if it wanted to remind him of something. The thought of moving at all terrified him.

But the gun terrified him more.

You got lucky once. Don’t push it.

You have to push it. You have to. They’re not gonna talk forever.

Hissing in a breath, he dragged himself along the floor, careful to go on his right side. Every time he moved, he jostled his left leg and it screamed at him in protest, but he bit down on his lip and refused to cry out.

Pain turns Hat on. He’s the one who liked hurting women. He likes it when people are hurt. Dog doesn’t think other people are real. They’re just toys to him. But if Hat sees I’m in pain, that’ll just get him off even more.

The pain doused his eyes with tears and his left side with napalm.

It also brought him a little closer—just a little—to Morales.

He blinked several times to clear his vision, which had gone watery again. Morales was breathing. He could tell. Hat had knocked her out in the struggle, was all. She was so close. Without a bullet in him, it would be nothing to dive for that gun and—

“What do you think you’re doing?” Hershey had finally turned his attention back to Jazz.

“I’m just going to check on her,” Jazz said, strong-arming his voice into a non-shaking, confident tone. Fighting the urge to whimper, to beg. “She’s FBI. You don’t want a fed’s death on your rap sheet, man. Trust me. Even Billy was never stupid enough to—”

“Oh.” Hershey blinked. “She’s still alive?” He moved the gun a bit, pulled the trigger before Jazz could even shout.

Small-caliber bullet. Back of the head. It made a perfectly tiny entry wound and Jazz could swear he heard it ricocheting inside her skull, making a hash of her brain. One eye—her right—popped open as though in surprise. It filled with blood startlingly fast.

Morales thrashed only once, then lay perfectly still.

You’re gonna be the death of that FBI agent, Jasper. I promise you that. You’ll watch her die.

Oh. God.

Look at all these bodies, Jasper. Look at all these bodies pilin’ up around you. You still think your hands are clean?

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jazz whispered. “You didn’t have to. Even Billy—”

“Stop talking about Billy Dent,” Hershey said in a tone of boredom. “I don’t care about Billy Dent. I’m going to out-murder and out-terrorize Billy Dent. I’m going to kill my way up and down this country and from coast to coast, until my name is written in blood on the Statue of Liberty as a warning to anyone who dares come here. I’m going to fill the Grand Canyon with carcasses and blood. I’ll be the greatest Crow ever.”

Crows again. If Hat didn’t worship Billy, Jazz knew his life was very much in danger. He thought back to the techniques he’d taught Connie for surviving a serial killer. All he could do now was try to keep Hat and Dog talking and maybe get his hands on Morales’s gun.

“A Crow,” Jazz said. “Is that what you guys call yourselves?” He gestured to Belsamo. “We called you Hat and Dog, but—”

Dog took a step back, but—and this impressed Jazz—kept talking. “You’re ruining the game,” he said. “They’ll catch us now. Both of us.”

“No. I’m not ruining anything. And they don’t even suspect me.”

And he pulled the trigger before even finishing the sentence. Belsamo gasped and grabbed at his chest as though he could snatch the bullet out before it could do any damage, but Hershey pulled the trigger again and this time a bright disc of red blossomed on Belsamo’s left cheek.

An instant later—less than an instant later—blood and what appeared to be teeth gouted out of Belsamo’s mouth. Dog collapsed to the floor, one hand pawing at his chest, the other grasping at his ruined face.

Jazz thought maybe he’d passed out for a second. Just a second. A wave of giddiness passed over him. The expression on Belsamo’s face was priceless—shock and horror intermingled with a kind of guileless reproach, as though he’d just been slapped at a fancy dinner party.

The Dog Killer heaved out one last, heavy breath and went still, propped up against the workbench.

One down, Jazz thought, giggling inside. One down and one to go!

Get a grip, Jasper Francis. It was suddenly G. William’s voice in his head, after so many years of Billy. Think fast, kiddo, and figure out what you can tell this prick that’ll make him let you go. You got a pretty little girlfriend back home and a best friend and some folks in the sheriff’s department who’ll miss you if it all ends here.

He minced along the concrete floor. Another inch closer to Morales… and he couldn’t help it. The pain was too much. A squeak of agony popped from his lips like a bubble.

Hershey turned to him, aiming the gun. “Really—do you think I’m stupid? Stop moving toward her gun. I will shoot you in the face and eat your eyeballs one at a time while you die.”

Right. Got it. Keep him talking, Jazz. If he’s talking, he’s not killing.

“The game’s over, right? So what did you win? What will Ugly J give you?”

A stab in the dark. But he was hoping to get a reaction like the Impressionist’s. Instead, he got a shrug. “I’ve been training for this my whole life,” Hershey said, without a hint of braggadocio or self-satisfaction. It was just a statement of fact.

“Me, too,” Jazz said. See, man, we’re like brothers. Don’t shoot me again.

Hat cracked the smallest of smiles. “But my life is longer than yours.”

He took the eyes. He’s the one who wanted the eyes.

And then Hershey knelt down by Morales.

“Don’t you want her eyes?” Jazz heard himself say. “Aren’t you going to take them?” He tried to make it sound as appetizing, as sensual as possible, but somewhere between the subtle manipulation in his head and the actual words coming out, they became desperate and frightened. He couldn’t help it. For the first time in his life, he was absolutely terrified. All he could do was try to manipulate this freak into mutilating Morales’s body. That was his only chance. Because then the guy would put down the gun. And then maybe Jazz could—

“There are a lot of eyeballs in the world,” Hershey said. “Everyone has them.”

I just want to live. Please. I just want to live. I don’t know if that makes me normal or if that makes me as bad as these guys, but either way, that’s what I want.

Hershey patted down Morales quickly, keeping the small gun aimed at Jazz. His other hand seemed to want to linger on her, but evidently found no pleasure in the flat planes of her bulletproof vest.

To Jazz’s terror and anguish, Hershey soon came up with Morales’s service weapon.

Keep him talking. Jazz blinked rapidly, clearing his eyes again. They kept clouding over. He couldn’t afford to sink into unconsciousness. He had to stay awake. Couldn’t let shock claim him. He would keep himself talking, even if Hershey shot his foot off next.

“If the game is over,” Jazz said, now beginning to shiver, “then where do you go to be crowned as winner?” He was guessing wildly now, kicking under the covers in the throes of a nightmare, hoping to knock away one of the dread dream beasties threatening him. He threw out another guess: “The Crow King. Billy’s the Crow King, right?”

Hat sighed, relaxing a bit for the first time. “Billy? No. The Crow King is much, much worse than Billy.”

Another desperate gamble: “What about Ugly J? What will Ugly J think of all this?”

Hat favored him with a mildly baffled expression. “Ugly J will be happy that the game is over, I suppose.” He flicked the end of the gun at Dog, and Jazz tensed. But the gun pointed back at him right away; no chance to dive at Hat. “This one was poor competition. And a pervert, to boot. Can you imagine cutting off a man’s special part? And keeping it?”

Yeah, that’s over the line. Raping women and taking their eyeballs is completely normal, though.

“He was so sloppy,” Hat went on. “Leaving his little ‘homages’ to Ugly J here and there… that’s why he had to go. That’s why he couldn’t win the game. That’s why there was never any chance he could ever win the game. It’s one thing to… We had to send pictures, you understand. To prove we’d done it. But that was all. Actually marking his territory like that… he was a dog. A mongrel. It was always destined to be me.”

“He tempered you,” Jazz said. “Like you said before. He upped the ante and you had to respond in kind. It was a test, to see if you could keep up. He cuts off a penis, you have to cut off a penis.”

Hat shuddered, but the gun remained steady. “It disgusted me, having to touch them there. But such are the rules of the game. Well, were the rules. This time.”

Jazz perked up. “This time?” It spilled out before he could help himself.

Hat’s expression changed for the first time, into an almost beatific smile. “The game is ancient. The game goes on forever. I would explain further, but you have no need for hearing.”

He’s gonna shoot me. He’s totally gonna shoot me. Jazz tensed, ready to roll to one side. Anything to give himself an advantage. “But I want to learn!” he protested, buying time. “I want to hear more!”

“Enough talk,” Hat said. “It’s time for me to go. To claim my reward and move on.” He stepped into the unit and took the battery-powered lantern. If Jazz hadn’t been shot, he could have run like hell or tackled the guy. But right now all he could do was stare at the…

At the ceiling…

Looking straight up, he realized that he might be seeing his salvation. Maybe.

He had to time it just right.

Still shivering, his body definitely sinking into shock, Jazz forced himself into a sitting position.

Hershey walked past with the lantern, the only source of light in the storage unit. He was going to kill Jazz and leave the bodies here, and who knew when they would be found?

With an agonized shriek of pain, Jazz levered himself up from the floor, pushing off with his hands. He tried to keep weight off his left side, but it was impossible, and a fresh wave of hell erupted along that side of his body as he reached out for the rope he’d noticed hanging from the ceiling. Hershey, distracted for a moment, almost dropped the lantern. Raised the gun.

Pulled the trigger.

Just an instant too late.

Jazz had grabbed the rope and pulled with all his might, collapsing to the floor again to add his body weight to the tug he hoped would save his life. The corrugated steel door to unit 83F came crashing down between him and Hershey lightning-fast. It was so loud that Jazz didn’t hear the sound of the gun going off again, but in the last instant of light before the door slammed down, he saw tiny dimples erupt in its steelhide.

Despite the pain plastered to his side like lava, Jazz found the strength to throw himself at the door. There was a metal lip inside the unit where the door met the floor and Jazz pressed down on it and leaned into it. Outside, Hershey cursed and pulled at the door, trying to raise it again, but Jazz refused to budge, holding it down.

No way. No way in hell. You are not getting in here. Not a chance. At least now there’s a door between that gun and me.

Cold comfort, as the blackness surged around him.

Finally, Hershey stopped tugging at the door. Even though every muscle and nerve in his body begged Jazz to relax, he couldn’t. He knew that it would be a trick, that as soon as he let up, Hershey would fling the door back up and open fire.

Still, the silence on the other side of the door was maddening. Was Hershey even still out there? Had he left?

That’s what he wants you to think. And then you open up the door and the last thing you see is the barrel of Morales’s gun.

Another wave of pain slammed at Jazz, bringing with it nausea. He realized someone was laughing and then realized that that person was him.

“There’s nothing funny about your situation,” Hershey said from outside.

Jazz agreed, but couldn’t stop giggling for some reason. “Do you know who I am?” he asked. “Do you have any idea what my father—”

“I know exactly who you are. You’re Jasper Dent. Crowson. And I don’t care. You’re not a part of the game. The dog creature was. Now he’s lost. The whoreslut was because all whoresluts are.”

Jazz closed his eyes. There was no light in the unit, so there was nothing to see, anyway. Then he forced them back open. Keep them open. Keep looking. You’re alive as long as you’re looking.

It was a standoff. For now. Jazz couldn’t get out and Hershey couldn’t get in. How long would that last? How long before Hershey decided to switch guns and just perforate the whole door—and Jazz—with the bigger-caliber gun? How long before—

Just then, he heard something scratching at the door.

What is—

And a tiny click!

No more standoff. He suddenly knew exactly what Hat planned to do to him.

Oh, hell no. This guy is not going to Cask of Amontillado me. No way.

“What are you doing?” He tried to keep the panic out of his voice, but he didn’t do a very good job. The pain, the shock—they wrecked all his control, all his skills built up over a lifetime.

“I’ll be back when you’re more compliant,” Hershey said through the door. “Or maybe I’ll just come back when you’re dead. Or maybe I’ll just leave you here forever. Whichever. It no longer matters.”

Jazz pounded at the door. It rattled and shook, but stayed in place. Hershey had locked him in. Locked him in the darkness with nothing but two corpses for company and a bullet wound that was slowly bleeding the life from him.

“Maybe we can make some kind of deal—” Jazz began, though what kind eluded him.

“No deals,” Hershey said. “You die. I live. Simple as that.”

“You left the message for me!” Jazz cried. “You were the one who welcomed me to the game! That was a Hat kill. You can’t just—”

“I was told to do that. I was just following the rules.”

A killer who followed the rules. Now Jazz had heard everything. He reached down to probe his leg, carefully feeling along as the pain increased.

He found a hole in his jeans.

And one in his thigh.

Still bleeding. Of course. All this moving around. Stupid.

Grimacing, he stuck his thumb in the bullet hole.

The sudden, new variety of pain jolted him like lightning. And in the same instant, his mind cleared and inspiration struck. The second workbench! This unit was divided in two—Hat and Dog shared it. A common space for their tools and trophies. He remembered the night—almost five years ago now—when Billy had realized that G. William was onto him, that the police would be at the Dent house within the hour.

Get into the rumpus room, he’d shouted to Jazz. Gather up my trophies and run to Gramma’s house. Do it now!

Jazz thought of that second bench. That second set of pristine murder tools. And that jar of eyeballs.

“You wouldn’t leave without your”—Come on! What does he call them? Tools or toys? Trophies or mementos?—“things, would you?”

In the silence that followed, he thought maybe he’d done it. He’d found Hershey’s psychological weak spot, his most crucial vulnerability, and had gained valuable leverage.

But then Hershey just laughed. It was the most terrifying thing Jazz could imagine in that moment.

“There’s always more out there,” Hershey said. “It’s time to clear the decks. Time to start over. You can have my old toys. There’s a world full of new ones waiting for me.”

“The new ones are never as good! You’ll miss these!” Jazz cried desperately. “You’ll think back to one of them and you’ll wish you had…”

He drifted off. Out of breath, for one thing. For another…

He’d expected a last word from Hershey. Something insane or unintelligible. But as he put an ear to the door he heard only footfalls.

Receding.

Silence greeted him, silence stretched out to long moments. Silence and darkness.

He thought it possible that he’d passed out again. He felt into his pocket for his cell phone. He would call Hughes. Hughes would come get him. And then… and then they could chase down Duncan Hershey. The task force already had a nice, thick dossier on him. There were only so many places for him to run to.

The cell phone screen read NO SIGNAL.

Of course. He was in a massive structure of concrete and steel and aluminum, with eight stories above him. If his cell wouldn’t work in a subway, it definitely wouldn’t work here, either.

Jazz didn’t panic, but he did allow himself to scream and pound on the door and bellow for help. He did it for roughly a minute, which is a long time to scream at the top of your lungs and beat your hands against a metal door, especially when shot.

He slumped against the door, sweat-drenched. He’d used up way too much energy on that temper tantrum.

No one came.

No one would be coming. Jazz did some quick math. His most conservative estimate was that there were close to three thousand storage units in this building alone. And given the twisty, narrow corridors, with their sound-killing corners, someone would probably have to come to one of the four or five units in this stretch of hallway in order to hear him.

Odds of five out of three thousand. Not the worst odds in the world, but when would someone come to their storage unit? Jazz didn’t know what it was like in New York, but in Lobo’s Nod, people only got storage units for stuff they didn’t really need, but couldn’t be bothered to get rid of. Stuff they might someday want, but didn’t really think about all that often.

Maybe a security guard—

Yeah. Right. Jazz thought of the man he’d gulled to get in in the first place. He could picture that fat-ass taking the elevator to each floor, poking his head out, saying “Good enough,” and calling it a night.

He wondered when the smell of Dog’s body and Morales’s and his own rotting corpse would finally permeate into some part of the building where someone would notice it.

He wondered if he would bleed to death first… or freeze to death in an unheated storage unit in the middle of winter?

At least whoever Dog planned on killing tonight is safe, he thought.

And then: And Connie. At least Connie is safe.