Текст книги "So Close the Hand of Death"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Fourteen

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Denver

Dear Troy,

Long drive. Arriving shortly. Anticipate no delays.

ZK

He was tired from the drive. The thump of the tires on the road was driving him mad. He was too tall for the car. The little beat-up compact rental was a piece of plastic crap. He didn’t like to drive. It would have been faster and easier to fly, but he had to follow the instructions to the letter. He’d taken the fastest route– I-5 south toward L.A. then across to I-15 northeast. He drove through the night, then face-first into the sun. He’d lost two hours in Vegas—the victims’ house had been hard to find in the maze of sameness that was the Vegas suburbs. But he’d found and dispatched them with the thoroughness expected of him.

Kill ’em and leave ’em. Those were the rules. No playing with the bodies. He was sorry for that. After the couple in San Francisco, the reaction he’d had to the blood, he was curious what it would be like. They wouldn’t be moving, right? But they’d still be warm.

It would violate the rules.

Monotony. He turned on the radio for company. He liked the conservative talk shows the best—they got his blood boiling. He’d always dreamed of calling in to one of them and telling the bastards exactly what he’d like to do to them. How he’d take them apart, piece by piece. They had everything—money, drugs, women. That Limbaugh guy had just gotten married for something like the twentieth time. And that English prick Elton John played at the wedding. He always thought Elton John was a liberal—he was gay, after all, flaming, really. Apparently money made everyone mercenary. He knew it worked that way for him.

On he drove, his thoughts racing, the radio spewing.

The sun, sinking like heavy red blood in his rearview mirror, the moon rising heavy and full, an expectant sky, then stars, pinpricks in the ink-black night, peeking from their celestial beds. For hours his headlights mingled with the moonlight, illuminating the path, miles upon miles of empty, lonely road stretched before him. At last the moon bade him farewell. The trees hung low across the pass, the tunnels empty and forlorn.

He rolled across the Rocky Mountains as the sun clawed through the morning virga, the gigantic peaks powdered with snow, the air becoming crisp and sharp. There would be a storm tonight, the rains he’d left behind in San Francisco making their way to higher altitude. He needed to finish the job and move along so he didn’t get stuck in town. That would get him off schedule, and he didn’t want that to happen. He glanced at his watch to double-check. No, he was still okay.

He stopped in Conifer for gas and a candy bar. He needed the energy. He was getting sleepy. He had another to kill today. He was surprised at how deadening the thought was. Boring, almost. Almost. The first time, back in San Francisco, now that had been something special. He wanted to stay and savor the moment, relive the gun exploding in his hand and the shocked looks on their faces, relish the scents that streamed from the bodies. He had no idea they would smell like that. Burnt offerings, elegantly tinged with copper, and the faintest tang of urine.

But he couldn’t stay and relish. He had a plan, and he must stick to it. The letter must be posted. The next targets eliminated. He didn’t know if he liked this game. He felt rushed. The driving, the back-to-back deaths. His own senses were out of whack. Not being able to choose his own victims, well, that took all the fun out of it for him.

He’d agreed to play by the rules. The rules meant he wouldn’t be caught. The rules meant he could win, then go on his own path, kill his own way. The gun seemed too impersonal, too easy. He really enjoyed using the knife in Vegas. Four more with the gun, and he’d have that freedom again.

He scarfed the candy bar and drank the Coke. Got back in the car and dreamed as he drove.

Freedom. If he won, the money would float him for years. He didn’t need much. A small house with a basement would be good, out of the way, with no nosy neighbors. Maybe he’d get a cat. He liked dogs, but they had to be walked, and he didn’t like to be seen. No, a cat would be perfect, a friendly face to keep him company.

If all went well, a few scared, unfriendly faces, too.

Fifteen

Taylor sat in her office and stared out the window. Night was falling fast. She watched the stoplight change, blinking ever so slowly through its cycles. Green, yellow, red. Green, yellow, red. She noticed how the colors altered ever so slightly as the gloaming settled in, the green like freshly mown grass, the yellow becoming nearly amber, the red a livid crimson. Bloody.

It was better than dealing with the seething mass of paperwork, Post-it notes, schedule changes and case updates that spilled across her desk. Her inbox was overflowing, the wood surface was covered in junk. Even her guest chairs had piles on them. She’d only been on leave for a few days—but it felt like weeks and looked like months. She shouldn’t be here now, but she needed a quiet place to think.

Baldwin had dropped her off at the CJC, with stern admonitions about what she was supposed to do for the next hour to ensure her safety while she worked, then he left, intent on some beckoning task. Probably arranging for the guards to be put on her. She was worried about the extra attention. Not because of the threat—the Pretender was going to come for her, that was simply a given at this point. No, she was worried about the accountability.

She’d never planned a murder before.

She wasn’t going to lie to herself. What she had in mind was cold-blooded, by-the-book first-degree murder. Premeditated. Malice aforethought. Intent to cause grievous bodily harm.

If she were caught, A.D.A. Page would plead her out. It wouldn’t even look like manslaughter once she got hold of the case. It would be labeled self-defense. Taylor was a cop, for heaven’s sake. Cops killed in the line of duty. And there were few people within her circle who weren’t already aware of the Pretender and his threats. So long as she managed the situation, made sure it was her word against, well, his wouldn’t count. He’d be dead. No witnesses to exact the moment. Timing was everything in this plan. She simply needed to make sure no one saw her kill the bastard, but the aftermath would leave no doubt that she’d been acting to protect herself. That was the most important thing. That way it wouldn’t look like an execution.

Still, it would be murder.

Taking life meant suffering the consequences daily. She knew that from experience. Usually at 3:00 a.m., when sleep eluded her and the ghosts of the men she’d killed sat on the edge of her bed, staring with empty, disapproving eyes, their flesh rotting in spots, bones glistening in the moonlight. Her waking nightmares were her punishment.

What sort of punishment would she receive if she pulled this off?

She was shocked to realize she didn’t care. She just wanted the whole thing to end.

What would Baldwin think?

She squirmed in her chair, messed with her ponytail.

Baldwin had killed before as well. He knew what it did to the soul. No amount of forgiveness or justification could fix that dark spot. Would he blame her for taking matters into her own hands? Applaud her? She got the sense he was thinking the same thing, though she would never ask. This was something that she could never, ever say aloud. Not to Baldwin.

She wished she could use a backup piece. She had a few unregistered pieces that fit the bill. She didn’t want to sully her service weapon with her blood revenge. If she managed to pull it off, she’d still have a job, responsibilities, a life with Metro. She’d have to touch that weapon daily, knowing it had done her bidding, had purposefully tracked a man down and taken his life. She’d never be able to forget. Perhaps that would be a fitting punishment after all.

Long range, or close up? She forced herself to be honest. Close up, definitely. She wanted to look the Pretender in the eye as he died. It was the only way she could be sure.

She ignored the rush of adrenaline that plowed through her. Just the thought of facing off against him filled her with a combination of lust and dread. She really didn’t recognize herself anymore. He’d driven her to this, this base desire to end another human being’s life. To walk away from every commitment she’d ever made to herself, to the force. She’d sworn to protect, not to indulge in the darkness.

But hurting the ones she loved…that was beyond the pale. The Pretender had chosen this path, and Taylor was the only one who could stop it before too many more of her people got hurt. Fitz, Sam, Lincoln, Marcus, even McKenzie, they were more than colleagues, more than friends. They were her family, just as much as Baldwin. Maybe even more so.

She just had to find the son of a bitch. Find him, and get a few precious minutes alone. This nightmare would end.

Taylor needed to make arrangements that suited her plan. She couldn’t have federal bodyguards looking over her shoulder. She needed insiders. Friends. People who, if challenged, would look the other way.

She picked up the phone and called her old boss, Mitchell Price, at home.

He answered on the third ring.

“Hell-ooo, Miss Jackson! How are you this fine evening?”

“Pretty good, Mitchell. You heard we found Fitz?”

“I did. Went to see him this evening. He’s in good spirits, considering. Have to say I’ve been celebrating the news a bit.”

Taylor smiled at the admission, Mitchell did sound a little in his cups. Not in a bad way, just happily tipsy.

“I can tell.”

“Am I that bad?”

“Goodness, no. I just know you well enough to hear the fine Irish lilt in your voice.”

“Ah. Good. What can I do for you? Have you finally decided to chuck Metro and come join my merry band of thieves?”

“Not exactly. I was hoping to do some business with you.”

She heard the music in the background soften, and he coughed slightly. His voice was solemn.

“Investigation or protection?”

“To be honest, protection. Baldwin is freaking out on me and planning a barricade of FBI agents. I don’t want to be…hampered. I have things I need to do, and his phalanx of suits will get in my way.”

“You’re not planning on going hunting, are you?”

Price always had known her too well. She avoided answering truthfully.

“We’re pretty certain the Pretender’s next play will involve me directly. I just want some extra backup. After hours. Off-site. My place. That kind of thing. Do you have a couple of folks you could detail to me for a week or so?”

“Only a week?”

“If it lasts longer than that, I’m doing something wrong,” she said softly.

Price was silent for a few moments. She held her breath. Surely he wouldn’t say no. She was right.

“Okay, Taylor. I’ve got a couple of guys who might work for you. They’re discreet. Quiet. And damn good at their jobs. I save them for our more private endeavors.”

Private. Right up her alley.

“That sounds perfect. When can they start?”

“Tonight, if you’d like. Give me a couple of hours to wrangle them up.”

“Just let them know one thing. The Pretender is mine. They are not to engage him if he gets close, they are to alert me and back off. Okay?”

“Taylor…” His voice held a note of warning.

“I just want to be the one to bring him in, that’s all.”

Price harrumphed, but let it go.

She hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair, smile gone from her face. There. Step one was in place.

Now she could worry about the second part of the plan.

She’d felt the darkness inside her, writhing like a snake in its warm nest, the deadening of her spirit becoming more and more complete as she grew older. Each death meant more blood on her hands, more pieces of her soul shattered and sloughed away. Why would this be any different? He was a threat, and threats needed to be neutralized. Simple as that. Taylor knew she could do it. She knew she was capable.

She’d left the church years before, but she found herself praying to an unknown, unseen God, the words moving past her lips soundlessly.

Let it be me. Let me be the one to end this.

Sixteen

Taylor awoke with a start. Damn it. She’d closed her eyes for half a second and drifted off.

A wave of emotion cascaded through her. She needed to move, to breathe in the night air, to find him. It was all well and good to dream about taking the fight to the Pretender, but the truth of the matter was, he was probably bringing it to her.

The walls grew too close and she stood, fast. As she rose, her holster caught on the edge of her inbox, dumping the contents to the floor.

“Son of a bitch!”

She looked at the mess, the parallel to her own emotions.

Be hunted, or be the hunter.

When it came right down to it, she knew which path she would choose.

She dropped to her knees and began assembling the mess. She’d gathered the papers and files into three significant piles when her phone rang. She reached up to her desk and pulled the phone to her. An internal call, from the switchboard.

“Lieutenant Jackson,” she answered, pushing all the morbid thoughts from her mind.

“LT, it’s Marcus. I’m out on a call, and I think you need to see this.”

She glanced at the clock, 10:11 p.m. Crap. Baldwin would be mad at her, she wasn’t supposed to be here that long. And seeing as she was deskbound, Commander Huston would be very displeased if she went out on a case in an official capacity. But Marcus Wade wasn’t prone to histrionics. Steady and smart, he was the one she counted on to see past surface appearances and into the heart of the matter. If he was calling, he actually needed her.

A quick look couldn’t hurt anything, and if the Pretender was watching… A shot in the proverbial dark, perhaps?

“It’s late. Why didn’t B-shift get the call?”

“Lincoln and I pulled it earlier. It’s taken us hours to get the body out of the water. He’s still in there, tied to something. We’ve got the OEM divers trying to get him untangled.”

That was right, Lincoln had mentioned getting called out to a drowning. And now Marcus was calling… “You have an inkling about the identity of the victim?”

“I think it might be Peter Schechter.”

Taylor groaned inwardly. Yet another teenager dead, more parents to engulf in sorrow. That would be nine of Nashville’s kids murdered in less than a week, not counting the one she’d taken down. She didn’t know how the city was going to recover. She didn’t know how she was going to recover.

“Is he a part of the Halloween massacre?”

“I don’t know. Can you come on out here? I’m at Percy Priest, a boat dock off Hamilton Creek Park. Sam’s just arrived.”

“I’ll be there in ten. Tell Sam to hang on until I can see the scene, all right?”

“Will do. Thanks, Taylor.”

Marcus clicked off. She turned the light out in her office and headed toward the motor pool at a jog. Her boots made sharp clangs against the concrete spiral up into the parking lot. Screw being on desk duty. One of her team needed her.

She grabbed the first unmarked she got to, slid behind the wheel and headed west.

J. Percy Priest Lake was the largest lake in Davidson County, over two hundred and thirteen miles of shoreline, five marinas and thirty-three boat ramps. With trails and playgrounds and fishing and boating, it was a miracle they’d found Schechter’s body so quickly. Though Taylor remembered her friend Robert Trice, who used to run OEM, the Office of Emergency Management, the department that conducted water search and-rescues, telling her that all bodies come to the surface eventually. Robert was gone now, dead too early. She missed him.

Marcus was standing off to her left, talking to Sam. The moon’s glow on the water should have been beautiful. Instead it was menacing. She didn’t like this one bit. It all felt wrong, had for weeks. She needed to do some serious assessments of her life. Because this was her dream, right? Right? To protect. To serve.

She didn’t think she was saving too many lives these days.

She stepped over to Marcus and Sam, who were deep in conversation.

“How’d they find him?” Sam was asking.

“Some guy coming down to tend his boat saw a flash of red in the water, realized it was a puffy down jacket and called 911.”

“That’s lucky. He could have been submerged for much longer. The cold water might have helped save some evidence.”

“The knots that tied him to the branch were elaborate. His jacket is weighted, too, though obviously not enough. He wasn’t meant to be found this quickly, I don’t think.”

Sam pushed her too-long bangs out of her eyes, her brown eyes sharp. “Good thing he was tied to that branch. He would have floated away, drifted down the lake, washed up somewhere else. So, Taylor, how’s Fitz?”

“He’s as good as can be expected. He’s been through a lot.”

Sam gave her a critical, assessing look. “So have you. You need to think about taking some more time off. You’re still on leave anyway, why are you here?”

“Because Marcus called me. I’m fine, really. I need to stay busy. If I sit around for another day I’m going to go mad. I won’t touch anything, I promise.”

Sam spoke softly, so only Taylor could hear. “You were hardly sitting around this morning. I heard what happened. Are you okay?”

Taylor nodded. “Yes. Just do me a favor, be aware, all right? I don’t want to take any chances. You guys are too precious to me to risk getting involved in the Pretender’s little game.”

“Not such a little game,” Sam said, a grim smile on her face.

They heard water splashing, then a deep male voice rang out in the gloom. “We got ’im!”

All the noise around her ceased. They brought the body out slowly, trying not to lose any evidence, though the victim had obviously been in the water for several days. Covered in the beginnings of adipocere, a thick, gummy wax made of decomposing fatty tissues, the gases in his body had finally pushed him to the point of buoyancy and he had floated to the surface.

The still-folded stretcher crouched like a metal spider on the uneven ground. The ’gators had a bag laid out, ready to receive the remains. With a splash, four men strong-armed the body into place.

Sam immediately beelined for the corpse, tsking in her typically Southern way. Taylor hung back for a moment, watching. She didn’t want to interrupt Sam’s communion with the dead. Sam shouted back over her shoulder, “Come on, then. I know you want to take a peek.”

Taylor edged forward until she was parallel with what used to be the body’s face. Trying not to breathe, she leaned in for a closer look. Male, late teens, it seemed. The skin was gray and doughy, wet with water and bloated tissue. Bits of matter stuck in the brown hair. There was too much damage to his face to be able to tell for sure, but she was certain they’d just found Peter Schechter. Gut instinct, maybe, or just process of elimination. He was their only missing person tonight, and this body fit the description they had in the system.

“Looks like him, bless his heart,” Sam said. She knew about the boy’s profile, everyone did. He’d been missing for five days, long enough that every cop in the city was on high alert.

“Anything leap out at you?” Taylor asked.

“You know better than that, cookie.”

“I do, but I thought I’d try.”

Sam went to her bag and dug in for a thermometer. “Best get the priest out of bed, though. I don’t want to drag this out any longer than I have to, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Can you ID him tonight, do you think?”

“I have the dental records back at the office. I’ll call Mike Tabor on my way, see if he can’t swing by and take a quick look. It’s late, but Tabor asked to be informed if we found anything. If it’s the kid, we’ll want to get his parents notified before this all leaks.”

“You can say that again.” Taylor stepped away, let Sam do her work. Sorrow flooded her. What a waste. What a goddamn waste. At least she didn’t get the sense that this was the work of the Pretender. She didn’t think she could handle another death on her conscience.

Marcus was taking notes, face pinched in the artificial light. The scent of rotting flesh permeated the scene. Floaters were the worst. Decomposition mingled with dank winter water created an unmistakable miasma especially designed to help turn even the strongest of stomachs, like three-day-old roadkill drenched in a moldy blanket. He gave her a weak smile.

“Sam’s going to try to ID the body tonight. Have you called Father Victor?” Taylor asked.

“Yes, just did. He’s aware I may need him.”

“Good. I’m happy to go back to the morgue with Sam, let you continue running things out here while we work on the identification. You won’t have to rush.”

Relief flooded his face. It was going to be a late night regardless—splitting up the duties would make things go quicker.

“You sure you don’t mind?”

“Not a bit. I’ll call you as soon as we know something.”

“Thanks, Taylor. I owe you one.”

She punched his shoulder lightly. “Yeah, yeah.”

She went back to her cruiser, grabbed her cell. She needed to let Baldwin know what she was up to. He wasn’t going to be happy about it, but in truth, she was. She needed the distraction. Working a murder, even peripherally, would keep her mind off the one she planned to commit.