Stress Fracture: Book One in the Dub Walker Series Page 12

  “If this guy’s this crazy, wouldn’t someone know? Wouldn’t he have been arrested or seen a shrink or something like that?”

  “Looking into that,” T-Tommy said. “And Dub going on TV with you tonight might help. Let the public know who we’re looking for.”

  “Maybe someone will call in with just the right tip,” she said.

  T-Tommy grunted. “Problem is that everyone will call in. Sure that their husbands or uncles or coworkers are the killer. And the real lead, if there is one, gets buried in there somewhere.”

  Claire looked at him over the wineglass she cradled in her hands. “You get that many calls?”

  “Hundreds,” T-Tommy said.

  CHAPTER 30

  TUESDAY 9:47 P.M.

  “GODDAMN IT. I‘M TIRED OF THIS CRAP. WHAT TIME IS IT, ANYWAY?” Deputy Larry Curtis was not having a good night. He had a headache, his stomach burned from too much pizza, and he felt trapped in an ever-shrinking room.

  He and deputies Marvin Kilborn and Mickey Fitch were rookies. Meant they got the shit assignments. Like this one. For the past dozen or so hours, they had shuffled through hundreds of department records of violent crimes. Four-foot stacks of files filled two tables and half the floor space in the cramped windowless room. The room smelled of sweat, stale coffee, crumpled McDonald’s bags, and empty pizza boxes.

  “It’s going on ten,” Kilborn said.

  Curtis continued his rant. “I didn’t hump through the academy to sit on my ass. I want to be on the street, doing police work.”

  “This is police work,” Fitch said.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Bullshit, what?”

  Curtis looked up to see Jeanette Hopkins standing in the doorway, a stack of files clutched to her ample chest.

  “Not you again,” Curtis said.

  She laughed. “I’m not feeling the love here, guys.”

  Jeanette was the head file clerk of the Madison County Sheriff’s Department. Had been for three decades. Today, she had agreed to work overtime to sift through the files and separate out the violent crimes. No one knew the file room better, and few knew as much about crime. Every thirty minutes or so she would appear with yet another stack of files. A never-ending supply, it seemed. At least this time she had only a few rather than the cartful she usually wheeled in.

  Curtis took the stack from her. “We love you, Jeanette. But these files? Maybe not so much.”

  “You’ll be happy to know that that’s the end of it. For today, anyway. These are from this weekend and a couple from yesterday.”

  “Hot off the press,” Kilborn said.

  “You boys have fun. I’m going home.”

  “Take us with you,” Fitch said.

  “Hmm. Wonder what my husband would say if I brought three handsome studs home?” She laughed again, turned, and headed down the hallway.

  Curtis settled the files on the table in front of him. “This is a waste. We haven’t found a damn thing except thieves, wife beaters, and gang scum. I’m not even sure what we’re looking for anymore.”

  “Exceptionally violent crimes,” said Kilborn.

  “You mean like murders, assaults, and rapes? Then all of these qualify.” Curtis waved his hand toward the stacks of files.

  “But those are common violence. We are looking for the uncommon and excessive,” Fitch said.

  “Okay. Let’s see what we have here.” Curtis snatched the next folder from the stack before him. “A fresh one, just yesterday. We have one John Doe. Now that’s an original name. Wait a minute. John has a name … Dan Hargrove. Looks like Danny Boy resides on our streets. He attempted to rob a Mr. Brian Kurtz with a knife, but Mr. Kurtz took exception and beat the shit out of Danny Boy. Now, is that common or uncommon violence?”

  Neither Kilborn nor Fitch responded.

  “They should give Mr. Kurtz a medal. If we had more victims like him, our job would be easy.” He dropped the file on the stack of folders to be returned to the file room.

  “Let me see that one,” Kilborn said.

  Curtis tossed it to him and then picked up another file and started thumbing through it.

  Kilborn read through the pages and then said, “Let’s hold on to this one.”

  “Why?” Curtis asked.

  “It looks like Hargrove ended up in the ICU. I’d say that’s excessive.” “Probably deserved it,” Curtis said.

  “Probably,” Kilborn nodded. “Still excessive, don’t you think?”

  CHAPTER 31

  TUESDAY 10:05 P.M.

  BRIAN KEPT PACE WITH THE OTHER VEHICLES THAT SPED NORTH ON MEmorial Parkway. After crossing Sparkman Drive and blowing past the Alabama A&M football stadium, he swung east onto Winchester. Traffic grew lighter and the road darker. Civilization melted into farmland with only a smattering of county roads and rural homes.

  He then zigzagged north into a new, sparsely developed area. Not far now. A few twists and turns and he was on Manfred Drive. Kushner’s street. A half mile long and only six houses. Kushner’s at the end, left side, just before the pavement gave way to a rutted dirt road that was blocked by a three-barred metal fence. A weather-worn white sign with red lettering hung slightly askew from the top bar and stated: Private Property.

  Kushner’s house, white clapboard over a red brick with brick chimneys at each end, had a large front yard that smelled of freshly mowed grass. Neatly trimmed shrubbery hugged the house, and a dim yellow bulb lit the front stoop.

  Brian made a U-turn and headed back up Manfred. Every home was dark except for one where the flicker of a TV screen strobed against thin window curtains. People went down early out here. At the end of the street, he made another U-turn and then parked his dark blue Jeep two hundred yards from Kushner’s place. He killed the engine and sat quietly.

  Using a small penlight, he again examined the map and other information he had printed from the caller’s e-mail. Albert and Roberta Kushner, forty-two and forty. Owned a strip center and a couple of service stations. Gave generously to several charities. Sat on the advisory board of a local museum. Elks Club. Lions Club. Blah, blah, blah.

  Made Kushner seem like a model citizen, man of the year. Total bullshit. Brian knew the man’s arrogance and hostility. Like the others, he felt he was superior and could be rude and demeaning to those he believed were beneath him.

  The last line on the page read: “Kushner away on business. Back tomorrow.”

  A twenty-four-hour stay of execution, Mr. Kushner.

  The caller had told him not to go near the house. That everything was set. That all the recon, as he had called it, was done. Fuck him. He stepped from the Jeep. He wore black sweatpants and a T-shirt and snugged a dark blue cap on his head. The weight of the gun and silencer inside the fanny pack he snapped around his waist felt solid and comforting. Too bad he wouldn’t be using them tonight.

  The night was warm, the sky black. A three-quarter moon hung low above Kushner’s. Along the western horizon he saw lightning flicker. Too far away to hear the thunder.

  Kushner’s house seemed to pull him forward. He walked down the street, past a sleeping house to his right, and then directly across Kushner’s front yard. As if he belonged there. He circled the house and found that the backyard was more compact but as well manicured as the front. A birdbath, wreathed by flowers, stood in the middle of the yard; a two-person swing hung between two poles to his right; and thick, unruly hedges lined the far side of the property, insulating it from the prying eyes of neighbors. Perfect.

  He crept toward the back door, where an ornate lamp cast a weak light on a small patio. To the left of the door a flimsy screen covered an aluminum-framed window. Entry would be a snap. Cupping his hands around his eyes and pressing them against the screen, he peered into a large darkened room. A big-screen TV, faced by a sofa, filled the left wall. A table and four chairs were to his right and beyond a small kitchen. According to the caller’s diagram, the hallway directly across from him led to the bedrooms.
<
br />   But no Kushner. His wife was probably there, asleep, but Kushner, far away. He felt a stirring in his gut and the familiar warmth rise into his chest. Not now. He backed away, fearful he would smash the window. He moved to the swing and sat.

  An odd feeling settled over him. A mixture of power and contentment. Here he sat and no one knew. The sleeping woman inside had no idea that the predator was so close. That the one who would end her life, her husband’s life, in less than twenty-four hours was here, waiting and watching. In no hurry. A predator is exactly what he felt like. No different than a thickly maned lion on the Transvaal. Surveying the potential prey before him. Selecting the one that needed taking.

  Involuntarily, he began to swing, the to-and-fro motion comforting. The rusted chain squeaked softly, reminding him of the backyard swing at his family’s house. One of the few refuges he had had. A place where he would glide back and forth and fantasize about running away, living with another family. A normal family. One that didn’t stay drunk or fight or scream or belittle.

  He took a last look around before circling the house and heading back to his Jeep. As he reached for the door handle, he hesitated. Something wasn’t right. He felt exposed. Naked. As if he was being watched. He looked up and down the street, but saw that nothing had changed. Except the TV watcher had given that up and now even his house was dark.

  He felt foolish and angry with himself. For letting this feeling creep inside. No one was watching. Everyone for miles in any direction was fast asleep, safe and warm, totally unaware of his existence.

  He climbed into his Jeep and sat for a minute. The anger continued to grow. Why now? What had ignited it? Was it his anger with himself? The fact that he was so close to Kushner? The heat and the rumbling expanded.

  Drive, he told himself. Get away from here. He cranked the Jeep to life, spun a U-turn, and quickly made his way back to Memorial Parkway, where he headed south. Not for long. His chest tightened and his vision seemed to narrow into an endless tunnel. Sweat soaked his shirt. He had to get off the road.

  He took the next exit, turned left, and then whipped a right into a quiet neighborhood. He slid to a stop, the Jeep’s right front tire smacking against the curb. His hands shook as he rolled down the window. His mouth dry, pasty, metallic. He tried to control his breathing. In … out … in … out. Willing the anger to recede. It wouldn’t.

  He saw that he had parked in front of a small house. Light yellow with white window shutters and trim. A white two-rail fence embraced the yard. The sweet stench of roses and flowering shrubs thickened the night air. A wave of nausea swept through him.

  Kushner might be out of town, but these people were home. Asleep and vulnerable inside their cute, little fairy-tale cottage. He wanted to burst into the house and kill everyone there, no plan, no thought, simply pure action. He could almost taste the shocked inhabitants’ fear. That deep, visceral fear that knew no limits. The fear of knowing that death had arrived and escape wasn’t possible.

  Who would be there? Old? Young? Man? Woman? Child? What would they do? Cower and beg or run? Would they resist? Not likely. He would explode into their lives with such fury they would be overwhelmed, with no chance to resist. He gripped the steering wheel as another surge of heat rippled through him.

  Why was this happening? How could these impulses rise so quickly, so uncontrollably? With little or no provocation? He had always had self-control, been able to put aside anger and fear and pain. Football and the military had taught him what his alcoholic parents hadn’t. These feelings and emotions were temporary. Ride them out and they’ll fade. It had always been that way. Even though he could still subdue pain and fear, his anger had changed into something else again. It could rapidly become so intense that containing it required all his strength.

  Like now. His knuckles ached from gripping the steering wheel as he struggled to rein in his growing rage. He failed.

  It took less than a minute for him to jump from the vehicle, hurdle the fence, race up the walk, and drive his shoulder into the front door. The door had no chance. The jamb cracked and splintered as he went through. One hinge maintained its grip so that the door hung cockeyed. He charged through the living room and into a hallway. Three open doors led to two deserted bedrooms and an empty bath. A fourth door, at the end of the hall, was closed. Surely whoever hid within the room was awake now. Shocked, confused, disoriented. Here I come. He drove his shoulder into this door, too, shattering it even easier than he had the front door.

  He expected to hear screams and see eyes wide with terror, but the room was empty. The rage was on him then. He stormed through the house. Tables, chairs, plants, lamps, pictures, chests, a cabinet filled with china, everything fell to his attack. The rampage continued until his arms and shoulders ached with fatigue, and he knelt in the rubble in the living room. Sweat pulled his clothes to him, and the chill of exhaustion caused his body to shake.

  CHAPTER 32

  TUESDAY 11:11 P.M.

  “WHAT CAN I GET YOU?” THE MIDDLE-AGED, RAIL-THIN WAITRESS wore a ketchup-and grease-stained apron. Her red lipstick strayed outside the line here and there, a couple of flecks on her teeth. A yellow pencil pinned her dull brown hair into a topknot. As she spoke, she peered over half-glasses, anchored around her neck by a cord that appeared to be two shoelaces tied together.

  “Cheeseburger, fries, and coffee, black,” Brian said.

  She scribbled on a pad and disappeared into the kitchen.

  After his rampage at the fairy-tale house, he had driven around, wrestling with his demon. He took Highway 20 past the space museum with its night-lit rockets blazing white against the night sky, and continued all the way to Decatur. He drove fast with the windows down, the night air rushing and swirling around him. He flew across the bridge at the Tennessee River, exited at Wilson Street, and looped back onto the highway toward Huntsville. Finally, the demon released its grip, and his high settled in his gut, transforming into hunger.

  For thirty years Mac’s Diner had served customers twenty-four hours a day, every day, including Christmas, attested to by the window sign that boasted WE NEVER CLOSE. As usual for this late hour, it was quiet with only two of its red-vinyl booths filled and the counter empty. Except for Brian, who sat on one of the stools, his elbows resting on the once-yellow, now faded and worn, Formica countertop.

  Ten minutes later, the waitress placed his food in front of him. “Ketchup and mustard?”

  “Sure.”

  The burger tasted good, the fries even better. While he ate, he watched the wall-mounted TV behind the counter. A well-dressed man and a perky blonde parroted the night’s big news stories: a midafternoon, three-car pileup on 431 near where it crested Monte Sano Mountain that snarled traffic for several hours; a drive-by shooting in West Huntsville; a child nearly drowning in a backyard pool in nearby Limestone County. Same shit as yesterday.

  “And now, back to our top story,” the anchorman said. “The murders of retired Sheriff Mike Savage, Carl Petersen, and William Allison. Earlier, on the six o’clock news, we had a live report from Claire McBride with her special guest, noted author and forensic expert Dub Walker. Here is a portion of that segment.”

  Brian focused on the TV as Claire McBride’s face filled the screen. “Previously Recorded” appeared in the lower right corner. She sat straight, shoulders squared, and looked into the camera. She seemed to be looking right at him. Then this guy appeared. This Dub Walker. Brian had never heard of him. They went back and forth, talking about him. Saying all kinds of vile shit. He heard words like sexual fantasy, impotent, latent homosexual, and coward. The demon stirred. Brian’s head began to pound, his chest constricted, and he felt heat collect in his ears and quickly spread to his face. He dropped his half-eaten burger on the plate.

  The waitress refilled his coffee cup and eyed him over her glasses. “Everything okay?”

  The roaring in his head made her voice sound distant and flat. “I’m fine.”

  She placed h
is bill in front of him and moved toward the kitchen, glancing back over her shoulder a couple of times before pushing through the swinging door. Brian dropped a twenty on the counter and headed toward the men’s room.

  He splashed water on his face, welcoming the coolness. He then relieved himself in the single urinal, once-white, now stained with brown streaks from the water that continuously drizzled from rusted pipes. He read the graffiti on the wall in front of him: crude drawings of naked women and ejaculating penises, phone numbers, poetry, and bits of philosophy.

  Shithouse poets.

  He zipped up and left the restaurant, a “thanks” from the waitress following him out the door.

  During the twenty-minute drive home, the skies opened. Brian slowed down and rolled up the windows, leaving them cracked so he could smell the clean, ozone-laced air. Lightning skittered across the sky. The TV interview had soured his mood and rekindled his rage, and now the heavy raindrops that pounded the Jeep’s roof only added to his fury. Who the hell did this Walker asshole think he was? Spewing all those lies.

  Once home, he was too wound up to sleep. He did several sets of bicep curls and bench presses, but it didn’t help. The phone rang.

  When he answered, the caller said, “That wasn’t smart. Snooping around Kushner’s. Trashing that house.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “All that matters is that I know. The question is … are you going to follow directions or not?”

  “Fuck you. I’m not your puppet.”

  “I’m simply here to help.”

  “You want to help? Give me that guy who said those things about me on the news.”

  “Yes, I saw.”

  “And that reporter bitch.”

  “I’ll see what I can find on them.”

  Brian was surprised. He had expected resistance.

  The caller continued. “I’ll deliver them, but first we have to deal with Kushner. Unless you blew that, too.” “No one saw me.”