Текст книги "Slaughter"

Автор книги: John Lutz

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

66

St. Louis, the present

Jordan had this persistent notion that the police were gaining on him. He had plenty of net worth, and stolen credit and debit cards that were too hot to use. He knew the police could quickly trace that kind of plastic, so he stayed with the rapidly diminishing cash that he kept hidden in a money belt.

Only now the ready cash had about run out, and the dangerous cards beckoned more and more to him. There seemed to be only one thing to do—or rather several things. They all had to result in the acquisition of money.

Jordan noticed what seemed to be a young college guy walking toward him. He changed course slightly and approached the boy, making note of his expensive-looking sweater tied by the arms around his neck. Mr. Preppy. A closer look took in deliberately worn-out jeans, and expensive-looking leather boots that had built-up heels that made the kid appear taller.

They were pretty much alone, in a place not far from where the Eads Bridge crossed into Illinois. Across the Mississippi the grim outline of East St. Louis was sharp against the cloudless sky. Down here on the levee the sun seemed to burn with an extra brightness, casting sharper shadows. River traffic seemed not to move until you looked away and then back at it and realized the scene changed slightly. It made Jordan wish, in some part of him, that he was a French impressionist painter, wise to the ways of light and shadow.

A man and woman walked close together and stopped now and then to kiss. They were the only other people in sight. Jordan waited until they disappeared into what looked like some kind of parking structure.

A car emerged five minutes later. It was a dented convertible with the top up, and was in no way a rental. The woman was driving and was alone. She was in a hurry and didn’t look anywhere except straight ahead. She didn’t apply the brakes as she pulled out onto the road.

Almost immediately, the preppy-looking guy reappeared and walked along the levee, seemingly enjoying the lingering morning and the nearby rush of muddy water.

Jordan approached Mr. Preppy, keeping his hands in his pockets so he’d seem more casual than dangerous. Noting that the boy appeared scared, he smiled with false assurance and said, “You look like a fella who’d give a desperate man a small loan.”

Now the kid did look afraid. His eyes darted around, seeking company or some sort of help.

But there was no one.

He tried a smile and a head shake. “Sorry, I don’t have a cent on me.” He stepped to the side and walked around Jordan.

Jordan moved to block him and took his hands out of his pockets.

At first he thought the kid was going to turn and run. Jordan didn’t want that. In fact, he decided that if the boy did break and run, he, Jordan, would run the opposite direction.

Instead of running, the boy sighed and said, “All I’ve got on me is ten dollars.” He pulled his brown leather wallet out of a hip pocket and flipped it open, showing Jordan that it was empty except for a single ten-dollar bill. Jordan held out a hand and was given the bill. It seemed so easy, he thought he should do more of this. “Give me the entire wallet,” he said. “I’ll give it back. I just want to make sure there are no secret pockets.”

Decision time. The kid looked as if he might bolt, but instead complied.

Thumbing through the wallet, Jordan found no more money.

He discovered nothing more of value. The usual junk. A driver’s license revealed that the kid was Samuel Pace, and he was nineteen years old. The clothes . . . the cheap wallet . . . Sam didn’t figure to be the scion of a wealthy family.

On the other hand, the trendy clothes suggested the family probably wasn’t poor.

A plastic charge card didn’t interest Jordan; he knew that once reported stolen it would be a trap. There was another card in the wallet. Two cards, actually, in a little envelope that had the name of a hotel and a room number on it. Inside the envelope were two key cards for the nearby Adam Park hotel, room 333. There was a photo in the wallet, too, pressed in plastic—an attractive young blond girl seated in a wooden swing and smiling. “This your girlfriend?” Jordan asked. Pocketing one of the hotel key cards. Probably the kid would think he misplaced it, or that he was given only one key card when he checked in.

“She is my girlfriend.”

“She here with you?”

“No. Yes. Coming in tomorrow.”

An obvious lie.

“I bet her name is Cherry,” Jordan said.

Samuel Pace looked slightly confused, not knowing if Jordan had just insulted his girlfriend. “Her name is Eleanor,” he said.

A tugboat chugged upriver, its air horn blasting a low, mournful note. Samuel Pace glanced at it with brief hope in his eyes. No one was on the boat’s deck. No one to look back at him.

Jordan said, “What size shoe do you wear?

Samuel blinked at him. “’Bout an eleven.”

Jordan shook his head in disappointment. The boots were too large for his feet, even if he stuffed something in the toes.

“I ain’t got any money in my boots,” Samuel said, getting the wrong idea.

Jordan smiled. “I’m gonna believe you.” He knew that he could, or Samuel wouldn’t have brought up the subject.

He handed the wallet back to the boy, keeping only the ten-dollar bill and the photograph, which he slid into his shirt pocket. He didn’t count the hotel key card as loot; plucking it out of its tiny envelope when the kid’s head was turned had been almost automatic. It was one of Jordan’s cardinal rules, not passing up a chance to use somebody else’s charge or key card.

“I know where you live,” Jordan said. “And I can find out about Eleanor. Neither of you know where I live.”

He took a careful up-and-down look at Samuel. He was skinny, but also tall. Probably close to six feet. Nothing he was wearing would fit Jordan. Everything would drape on him, making him look even smaller than he was. Lost in his clothes, as his mother used to tell him. His late mother. His father hadn’t minded his diminutive stature. It made Jordan easier to control.

“You seem not to believe I think of that ten dollars as a loan,” Jordan said.

Samuel stared at him, still afraid, but curious.

“You be here this time tomorrow and I’ll pay you back, with interest,” Jordan lied. “You believe me?”

“If you want me to.”

Jordan smiled. “I’m not sure I know exactly what that means, but yeah, I want you to. I told you it was a loan. I don’t lie.”

Samuel was in no position to contradict Jordan. He simply stood with a stupid half grin on his face.

Jordan stuck out his right hand. “I’ll bring the photograph, too. The one of Eleanor.”

Samuel thanked him because he couldn’t think to say or do anything else.

“See you tomorrow,” Jordan said. He shook Samuel’s sweaty, trembling hand with its slender fingers.

As an afterthought he added, “I know a famous glamour photographer who’d love to shoot Eleanor. Maybe I’ll bring her, too. He might wanna shoot both of you.”

Thinking, always leave them confused.

Jordan had noted on the Missouri driver’s license that Samuel’s address was here in the city, though he was staying at a hotel. He was most likely here for an assignation with Eleanor. One that he didn’t want anyone else to know about.

Or tell anyone else about.

Samuel was smart to be so suspicious, Jordan thought.

He walked off in the direction of Jasmine.

Later that day

Lying in the cool air-conditioning with his eyes closed, Jordan thought about his master plan. The plan that would play out as tragedy so vast it would be pondered and admired for generations.

The witnessing of what the famous architect and engineer Ethan Ellis had done to a ten-year-old boy ensured Ellis’s cooperation and his silence. He had understood immediately what Jordan wanted.

And why, like Jordan, he had long ago made his choice of evils, and it had enveloped him like a shroud.

PART FOUR

A righteous man regardeth the life of

    his beast;

but the tender mercies of the wicked

    are cruel.

–PROVERBS 12:10

67

New York, the present

Minnie Miner was not so much amenable as eager to be part of the plan. Quinn decided Helen the profiler would be best for the opening gambit, the softening up. Helen was skilled at turning unease into fear, fear into horror, horror into mindless panic.

“My vote for someone to explain these gruesome murders goes to a woman who knows all about the people who might perpetrate them,” Minnie said with all sincerity to camera 2’s red light. “I give you police profiler, psychologist, and author Helen Iman.”

Helen, all six feet plus of her, strolled out onto the set. Despite Helen’s towering height advantage, Minnie matched her presence with pure energy. Fireball meets lackadaisical.

Applause was enthusiastic. Minnie made a welcoming motion with her right arm, and Helen sat down in one of the wing chairs angled at forty-five degrees so they both faced the low coffee table. She was wearing a red dress with a low neckline, and a high hemline that showed off her almost impossibly long legs.

Minnie sat in the other chair, on the very edge of the seat cushion, and smiled while the audience applauded. She waited, waited . . .

When the applause began to flag, she heaped more praise on Helen: “This woman has a sixth sense when it comes to getting inside the heads of the bad guys.” Minnie laughed. “And she knows a lot more than anyone else I know about weaponry, villains, law enforcement, and serial killers.” She turned her attention away from the audience and faced Helen. “And one interesting thing I’ve heard you say in the past, Helen, is that such killers are like ticking time bombs. At a certain point they very much want to get caught and stopped. That happens when their murders make it begin to seem like they’re the ones dying a little at a time with each death they cause, each life they stop. Killing does that to the murderer, male or female.”

Helen looked beyond Minnie and spoke to the studio audience.

“Have you ever eaten something you thought was delicious, knowing it wasn’t good for you?”

She pretended to count members of the audience, observing the various heads nodding yes, yes, they knew the satisfaction of stuffing food into their mouths to the point of gluttony. And Helen knew it. They had that in common, being human beings. But Minnie wasn’t any kind of criminal. So how could she know the cost of disregarding the lengthening shadows? The ticking bomb? Her background surely precluded that.

“Helen?”

Minnie was looking at her expectantly.

“Sorry,” Helen said. “We push the food away. We’ve had enough. We can eat no more. Finally, it is time to stop.”

The audience applauded at the pause, without a cue. They liked this woman. Minnie decided to let it roll.

“Usually one person can understand another only up to a certain point,” Helen said. “Going beyond that point is what I do. That is what I’ve done. It’s my job, and it’s my calling.

“The Gremlin,” she continued, “is not a good person. Not in any way heroic or iconic. He has a curious mind. That we know. And he is sick. He might be clever. He might be deadly. He might be three moves ahead of his pursuers. But he is also sick. He can’t stop his increasing use of the knife. He can’t stop torturing before killing. He can’t help reverse engineering every interesting device he comes upon. He can’t help this; he can’t resist that; he can’t reverse this; he can’t change that. He is not the skilled genius who always must know more. He is simply a simple man with a simple problem. The solution is also simple. He wants to be caught now. Finally. Even more than he wants to kill. He wants to be locked up for life or die by needle. But not just that. He wants to chose the time and place of his death. He wants to be an observer as well as a participant. He needs to stop. On the other hand, he needs to continue.

“He needs to know how death works.”

68

“I heard most of the conversation,” Pearl said, when Quinn and Weaver had broken their connection. They’d recorded most of the Helen/Minnie conversation on their cell phones.

Quinn laid his phone on a bookcase. Most of the best mystery writers’ books were there. Tricky folks, those. Had they influenced him? He hadn’t mentioned to Pearl that she would be the primary target in Quinn’s plan. The bait. She was the one in the killer’s sights, whatever the condition of Weaver. Had been his ultimate target almost from the time of his arrival in the city.

It was Helen’s opinion that Pearl was the most important piece on the killer’s imaginary game board, the queen that had to fall.

That Weaver ostensibly was the ideal bait also made her the ideal diversion.

Pearl was what the killer had to claim to complete the mad symmetry of his purpose in life. And in death.

“You don’t have to do it,” Quinn repeated to Pearl.

She smiled. “I want to do it. I want to stop this bastard just as much as you do.”

“Why?”

“You know why. The reasons that sound corny if you say them out loud.”

“The lady in the harbor?”

“I don’t want to get all metaphysical before I brush my teeth,” Pearl said.

Quinn poured a cup of coffee, then sat down at the kitchen table. He sipped as he stared out the window at a ledge of the building next door. A small pigeon kept landing there, which seemed to drive the other pigeons nuts, because they would flap around and coo and fly at the intruder. As Quinn watched the avian combat, it occurred to him that he had never before seen a tiny, half-grown pigeon. He wondered if for some reason there weren’t any, or if he simply hadn’t been looking. Were they the victims of hawks? He knew there were hawks in Manhattan. Their presence had been called to his attention, and he had seen them.

Quinn wondered what else in life he simply hadn’t noticed. He had so far seen a certain kind of life a great deal, but there was more, much more.

There had to be.

Quinn drove to Faith Recovery and parked the Lincoln on the street.

The amazing imaginary woman who’d been in a car accident and lost her memory was on his mind, haunting his thoughts. He almost believed it himself, that he and she were going to enter a maniac’s mind and destroy him. All or most of the plan had been hatched by Helen the profiler, in partnership with a former cop who’d learned psychology on the streets.

Their plan—their trap—should work, and perhaps it might even evolve into something that surely would work.

Quinn and Helen hadn’t simply been burning up calories when they jogged twice daily around the block. Helen moderated her pace, and with Quinn had memorized their surroundings, the layout of Faith Recovery Center’s reception area, the location of the elevators, the entrances and exits, including the ones only for staff, the fire escapes, numeric sequences of the rooms, radiology, cardiac, and operating areas.

The place was a large enough facility to have a park-like area behind it, as well as a small gift shop and cafeteria.

Quinn glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost seven p.m. Time to go to the room adjoining Weaver’s, through an open, wide door designed to admit gurneys and wheelchairs.

Weaver was good at her job. She actually appeared injured and drugged. She was convincing as a woman who’d died and come back. The power of suggestion.

Can you do that? Ethan Ellis wondered, putting down the Times. Actually return from the dead?

Not long ago he would never have asked himself that question. But maybe he should have. Now the bitter pill he could never swallow was the truth. There were no second chances. And even if there were, he knew in his heart he wouldn’t have taken the smarter and more honorable road.

He knew he had to pull himself together. His wife, Cynthia, and his son, Jeremy, would wonder where he was.

Ethan was in the lobby of the recently rebuilt AA AAL building, financed by oil money and the taxpayers. He was the creative genius who’d figured out the best way to add marble and stone and glass and at the same time make the building almost twice as tall as its original thirty stories. Already the building was sixty percent rented. Now he was to accept his second Golden Architectural Award.

It was a night for celebration.

But damping high spirits was the subtle but persistent rhythmic whack, whack, whack that pounded through his head.

Then came the images of what Manhattan could become.

The pain.

Ellis bowed his head and sobbed.

69

Minnie Miner’s voice thrummed with excitement when she called Quinn the next morning on his cell.

“It’s working, Quinn! I made sure the Helen Iman interview was the hottest thing online, and that got us a lot of the print media. Not to mention even more video. CNN and Fox News are still running it on their loops. On Twitter it’s—”

“Sounds good so far,” Quinn interrupted. “Odds are that one place or another, the Gremlin will see it, hear it, or read it.”

“According to Helen, he’s bound to come in contact with it because he’ll be looking for it hard. He’s hooked on his own infamy. He can’t stay away from watching and reading about himself, no matter how hard he tries. This is what the sicko has been working for. It’s what they all want. To become legends. Their life is a story, and what’s a story without a slam-bang ending?”

“Helen isn’t always right.”

“Yes, she is,” Minnie said. “She’s my hero.”

“Mine, too. If this continues to work.”

“Nobody said it would be easy.”

“That oughta tell us something,” Quinn said.

He turned off his cell phone alarm and went into the bathroom to take his shower.

Quinn was toweling off, and was going to wake up Pearl, when the landline phone rang. This ring was louder than the cell phone’s alarm, and should have been loud enough to wake Pearl. He imagined her fluffing her pillow and gradually rising from sleep. He managed a gruff “’Lo . . .” as he picked up the phone.

“Quinn. It’s Nancy Weaver. How come you aren’t in your office?”

“I just got awakened by a phone call at my home. In my bed.” A small lie to help make his point.

“No need to be pissed off,” Weaver said. “I’m the bearer of good news. I think. Homicide called about fifteen minutes ago. There’s this couple in St. Louis, Fran and Willie Clarkson, that owns and operates a brat stand.”

“A what?”

“Brat stand. People in St. Louis like their bratwurst. You know, they look like hot dogs.”

“The people in St. Louis?”

“I’m barely awake, Nancy. Get to the point.”

At the mention of Nancy’s name, Pearl sat straight up in bed. “Dammit, Quinn!”

Weaver said, “The male half of this couple, Willie Clarkson, called about something that happened in their bratwurst stand about thirteen or fourteen years ago. They saw the stories about the Gremlin and his ear and thought they’d better call.” Quinn waited silently, staring at Pearl while she stared back, and listening to Weaver tell about the young couple, Pablo and May Diaz, and the episode with the knife. And the eviscerated rat.

“All this might have nothing to do with anything,” Quinn said.

“I wish I could e-mail you a photo of the rat.”

“Never mind that,” Quinn said.

“The Clarksons cleaned up the place at the time anyway. There was nobody there to tell them otherwise, and Fran said the rat was creeping her out. There were no investigations at the time, either. But word got around. Somebody crossed out the B in their stand’s outside menu.”

“Cruel,” Quinn said. “To you, me, the Clarksons, and the rat.”

“Minnie Miner is spreading the word about my ‘accident, ’” Weaver said. Her voice was eager, without a tremor of fear. He could imagine the diamond glint in her sly eyes. Weaver was born for action. The huntress was on the scent.

“I want to go through it again,” Quinn said.

“I don’t want to recite it again, Quinn.”

“Good. I want you to listen. The news-starved media will grab this story as if it’s a hamburger. You’ll be reported as being on the critical list after the auto accident. The doctors will have put you in an induced coma. They’ll express amazement that you’re still alive after your heart stopped beating for over five minutes. You simply came awake after you were pronounced dead and had no vital signs. There seems no reason that, when aroused from your coma, you won’t return to normal.”

“Gee, I feel better already.”

“You’ll stay in your hospital bed at Faith, supposedly making the first meager beginnings of a complete recovery. You’ll be touted as a medical miracle.”

“And the killer will be obsessed with finding out how I . . . work.” She said this with little emotion.

“What he won’t know is that you’ll be watched every minute, and we can be in your room within seconds. Just in case, you’ll be wearing a Kevlar bulletproof jacket beneath your hospital gown.”

“I want my nine-millimeter,” Weaver said, still with her calm, flat voice.

“You’ll have it, but you probably won’t need it.”

“Such a plan we have,” Weaver said.

“You should be safe. Helen is certain of one thing. The woman the killer will want more than anyone in that hospital room, and whose death will be a personal tragedy and defeat for me, is Pearl. He’s chosen the time and place. Everything else will be a diversion.”

“And he’ll assume I’m Pearl.”

“Yes. Pretending to be someone else.”

“Who is also pretending to be Pearl.”

“Uh-huh. He won’t be sure, though. He can’t be.”

“Won’t he notice the bulky flak jacket under my gown?” Weaver asked.

“He shouldn’t, what with all the distracting plastic tubes and medical paraphernalia around you.”

“At the least, he’ll hesitate.”

“Right. His target is the real Pearl, pretending to be someone else. He’ll surely expect something like that. Much like a marble under one of three walnut shells a huckster keeps moving around.”

“What prevents the Gremlin, and not you, from being the last to incorporate a switch?”

“I know him,” Quinn said. “He likes back-and-forth trickery, but not if it gets too complex “

“This is too complex?”

“I honestly don’t know. Three women are involved, and one of them isn’t real.”

“Thank God!” Weaver said, “that not everything happening around here is real.”

“Don’t be too thankful,” Quinn said. “Remember that the woman in Pearl’s bed, beneath the black wig, all the Kevlar, and Pearl’s bandages, will be you. Pretending to be Pearl pretending to be a woman who already died once.”

“Pretending to be pretending,” Weaver said. ”Because Helen has convinced you that the Gremlin wants Pearl even more than he wants the woman who cheated death.”

“She didn’t exactly cheat death,” Quinn said. “She only visited.”

He worked the miniature keyboard on his iPhone.

“Who are you calling now?” Weaver asked.

“LaGuardia,” he said. “Flight to St. Louis. Old habits die hard.”