Stress Fracture: Book One in the Dub Walker Series Page 17

  “See what you made me do?” His voice sounded soft, almost a whisper.

  He struggled to his feet and on quivering legs moved to the open window. The cool night air tasted sweet, but he felt lifeless, inert. He turned from the window. The bodies before him produced no emotion. No anger or pity or revulsion. Only relief. And an unfathomable emptiness.

  Yet, deep within, he sensed a vague twinge. Weak, tentative, amorphous, but there nonetheless. Usually it was many hours, even a day or two, before it reawakened. Why was it reemerging now so soon after its release? For a moment, he feared it would swell within him and again take control. If it did, he was too weary to fight the monster. Thankfully the feeling lingered only briefly before beginning a slow retreat.

  He walked down the hallway to the bathroom, stepped into the shower stall, and twisted the cold-water handle. The shock caused him to flinch, but as the water cascaded over his head and shoulders, he soon felt invigorated. He stood beneath the spray for ten minutes, letting the water leech the blood from his clothes. He watched it spread across the white tile floor and swirl down the drain.

  He turned off the spray. Stark silence followed, broken only by a soft dripping noise from the drain. He stripped off his pants and shirt, leaving his gloves and shoes in place, and squeezed water from them. Using a towel from the rack, he blotted his skin and hair dry, and then redressed. The wet clothing proved difficult to pull on, and felt cool against his skin. His shoes made squishing noises as he walked toward the den. He avoided the corpses and the blood that surrounded them, picked up his gun from the dining table, took a last look around, and slipped back through the window.

  CHAPTER 43

  WEDNESDAY ll:03 P.M.

  AN HOUR EARLIER, HAROLD PEARCE HAD PARKED NEAR THE END of a dirt road a quarter of a mile away. His path through the trees to Kushner’s was on a ninety-degree angle from the path he knew Brian would take. He had found a place to squat among the low branches of a cedar tree, a location that gave him a clear view of the rear of Kushner’s house. Soon Brian showed up. He watched him slip through the window and disappear inside. He trained his night vision scope on the house and waited. For nearly half an hour. His legs ached from the awkward position. How long was this loony going to stay in there?

  Finally, Brian slid through the window, lowered himself to the patio, crossed the yard, and disappeared into the trees only thirty yards from Pearce’s position. Pearce waited until the soft rustling of Brian’s clothes against the foliage faded in the distance. He crossed the yard, slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and pulled his small Maglite from his pocket. He aimed the light through the open window. The harsh beam scythed through the interior darkness. At first he saw nothing unusual, and then the beam reflected off the bloody pile of flesh in the middle of the floor.

  Jesus.

  He climbed through the window and circled the bodies, careful to avoid the dark splotches on the carpet. The air was rich with the coppery smell of blood and raw flesh. Using his small digital Nikon, he snapped several pictures before returning the camera to his pocket. As he moved back toward the window, he felt something firm beneath his shoe. He picked the object up and examined it. This, too, he slipped into his pocket.

  After he returned to his car, he sat for several minutes, rerunning the scene. He had participated in how many killings during the past twenty-five years? Too many to remember. Most often with a single clean shot, but occasionally with a knife, garrote, poison, arrows, or explosive devices. Whatever the job required. Killing never bothered him. It was part of the job and often the best part. The contracts he had fulfilled were professional. Clean, efficient, in and out. Quick and simple. But this Kurtz kid was none of that. Beyond anything he had ever seen.

  He rummaged through his black canvas bag until he found his cell phone. Hublein answered on the third ring.

  “This is Pearce.”

  “Yes.”

  “Get Wexlar and meet me at the institute. Now.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t fuck with me. I said now.”

  “You listen—”

  Pearce disconnected the call.

  CHAPTER 44

  WEDNESDAY 11:15 P.M.

  MURDERERS INTRIGUE ME. ALWAYS HAVE. NOT JUST ANY MURDERER, though. Not those who kill a spouse or a coworker in an isolated fit of passion or anger. Not those who kill for greed or revenge. Not even those who kill to make a statement or conceal another crime. These are far too common. Vanilla. Barely make the evening news unless the victim, or the killer, is someone of importance. The truth is that anyone could commit such a murder. If the perfect storm hit at just the right time, I believe that all of us are capable of killing another human being.

  But those who kill again and again and again are a different story. The ones like Billy Wayne Packwood. Like the guy who killed Mike.

  The real question about multiple murderers was, why do they do what they do? What goes on deep inside all those areas of the brain I had studied in sophomore neuroanatomy? The lumps and bumps and striated pieces of gray matter I had held in my hand in anatomy class. These clumps of brain tissue look the same in all of us, yet, for some reason, there are those whose neurons don’t work right. Misfire. Generate too much static. Cross-connect in some odd fashion. Create a life script that the rest of us simply can’t get our minds around.

  Why do some people, born under the same umbrella of humanity, step out into the sunlight, while others slide toward darkness?

  Earlier, after I returned from the TV station, I had gone for a run and then a grueling ninety-minute workout in the gym I had set up in the small shed that sat along the back edge of my property. Weights, sit-ups, push-ups, and three rounds with the heavy bag. I grabbed a hot shower and downed a meat-loaf sandwich and a couple of bourbons. I then spent two hours shuffling through the stack of notes I had put together on the case. I went over each piece of evidence twice, but found nothing new.

  Now I stood barefoot, bourbon in hand, looking out over the lights of the city. The killer was out there somewhere. A family in his crosshairs, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Except wait. Wait for the bodies to be discovered. Far below, lines of head-and taillights moved up and down the parkway. Was one of them the killer? Was he going to or coming from the couple’s home?

  I glanced at my watch. 11:15. Time for the replay of the interview T-Tommy and I had done with Claire. I went inside, flipped on Channel 8, and sat on the sofa. The segment lasted eight minutes, including the commercial break. Interesting seeing it from this side. I thought I did well. I hoped the killer did, too. Hoped it shoved a weed up his butt.

  I walked out on the deck. 11:25. Why hadn’t Claire called? She said she would when she got ready to leave the reception. Maybe she forgot and was on her way. I stretched and took a deep breath. A thin layer of clouds smeared the moon. A soft breeze came up from the valley. I went back inside and sat on the sofa again. It was 11:29. Where was Claire? Why was I worried about her all of a sudden? Because there was a madman running around whacking people. That was part of it, anyway. The rest? Last night had rekindled feelings I wasn’t sure I wanted to deal with. Not now. Maybe not ever. We had worked everything out between us. Came to a comfortable place. I saw absolutely no need to mess with that. Still?

  I leaned back, rested my head on the cushions, and closed my eyes. My thoughts ran back to the case. I tried to visualize each murder. How did the killer approach unseen? Where did he park his car? Did he simply walk down the street, or did he approach more furtively? One by one I ran through the scenes.

  At Petersen’s, he made his way to the fifth floor of the Erskine, bashed the old man to death, and no one heard a thing. At Allison’s he climbed the apartment steps, and at Mike’s he jumped a fence, both clearly visible from the street, yet no one saw anything. It was as if he were a ghost or something. Maybe he was one of those invisible people, right there in plain sight but whom no one notices. I rejected that idea. At six feet or so and t
wo hundred pounds, he would not be overlooked. Especially jumping fences or sneaking through yards at night. Maybe like Robert Johnson he had “gone down to the crossroads” and exchanged his soul for the devil’s power. Here, catlike stealth rather than Robert’s musical talent.

  The ringing phone yanked me from my reverie. “Hello.”

  “Hello, yourself.” It was Claire. Finally. “What are you up to?”

  “Waiting.” I could hear voices in the background.

  She laughed. “I’ll be leaving this deal in about ten minutes.”

  “See you when you get here.” I hung up the phone smiling, feeling foolish for worrying. The phone rang again. “What’d you forget?”

  “I never forget anything.” It was him. “You were expecting someone else, I see.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No matter. I’m glad you’re home.” His voice was calm and controlled.

  “Why don’t you come over for a chat?”

  “Let’s see. Old Church Road. At the end. Gray with white trim. Is that the one?”

  The hair on my neck bristled. The bastard had been here. When? Was he nearby now? “That’s the one. Come on by, I’ll be waiting for you.” I stood and carried the portable phone to the front window and looked out. The street was empty and quiet.

  “I might take you up on the offer, someday … or some night.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “I assume you have the trap-and-trace set up on your phone by now.” He laughed softly. “It won’t help.”

  “Maybe it already has.”

  “Okay, I’ll play. Where am I now? What have I been doing?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” I said.

  “I’m disappointed. Can’t you even venture a guess?”

  “Wouldn’t want to spoil your fun. You enjoy telling it so much.”

  “You’re right. Particularly since you can’t do anything about it.” He paused. “What’s the word? Impotent?” He hesitated, but when I offered no response he continued. “I’ve been busy.”

  I stiffened. Here it comes. “I see.”

  “The couple I told you about. You should see them. Then, I guess you will, won’t you?”

  I tried to swallow, but my throat was suddenly dry. Relax. Don’t show your anger. Rein it in.

  “Such a lovely couple,” he went on. “Of course, the husband was an arrogant asshole.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Only briefly. He didn’t get a chance to say much. Not like before.”

  “Before? When?”

  “When he pissed me off.”

  “So you’ve met him?”

  “Dub, I know what you’re up to. Digging for facts, hoping I’ll say something that’ll lead you to my door. I don’t see that happening.”

  “Sooner or later.”

  “Not likely.”

  “If you were angry at the man, why kill the wife?”

  “I couldn’t leave a witness, now, could I?”

  Wrestling my anger under control was proving more difficult each minute. Don’t lose it. “Where are they?” I said, forcing myself to sound calm, unaffected.

  “All in good time.” He chuckled softly. “I saw your mouthpiece McBride on TV earlier, telling more lies about me.”

  Time to press him. “Are they lies? Our profiles are usually accurate.”

  “Not this time.”

  What does it take to get to this guy? “No, I think I’m right. In fact, I’m sure I am.”

  No response for several seconds, but I could hear breathing. Then he said, “You should be careful what you say. You’ve seen what happens to people who piss me off. Remember, I know who and where you are, but you have no idea who I am.”

  “My invitation still stands.”

  “Maybe I’ll do your TV bitch. Show you what I’m capable of.”

  “She’s got nothing to do with this. It’s you and me. That’s all that matters.”

  “What really matters is that you’ll be sorry for angering me.”

  He didn’t sound angry at all. “I don’t think so. You’re an impotent little coward who kills old men and women.”

  Again, no response.

  “You still with me?” I said.

  “Just going over my options.”

  “What options?”

  “Whether to do McBride or this other couple. A nice young couple. Both are tempting.”

  “What couple?”

  “Picture-perfect. Young man. Young wife.” Cold, dispassionate. Reptilian came to mind.

  “Do you know him, too?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s a rude, self-centered jerk. Just like the others.”

  “He knows you?”

  “Not yet, but he will.”

  Time to try a different ploy. “So you believe they all deserved it. Is that it?”

  No response.

  I went on. “I know some people do and some don’t. Why did these?”

  “The usual. They were arrogant and demeaning. Dripping with false superiority.”

  “I know a few people like that.”

  After a moment of silence, he laughed softly. “Excellent. I see you studied your interrogation tactics well. Try to establish a bond with the suspect. Feign understanding and sympathy. Gain confidence. Ferret out information. It won’t work. I know what you’re up to.”

  “Maybe I mean it.”

  “I don’t think so.” Another soft laugh. “I could talk all night, but I’ve had a long day. And an even longer one ahead.” The line went dead.

  I hung up and called T-Tommy. “He just called.”

  “And?”

  “He did the couple. Like he said he would.”

  I heard T-Tommy’s heavy sigh. “Say anything else?”

  “He’s now looking at another couple.”

  “We’ve got to get this guy.” In the background, I heard his cell phone go off. “Just a sec.” I could hear him talking but couldn’t make out what he was saying. Then he was back. “Cell phone company. They got someone on this around the clock. Know to call me if he uses the phone. This one came from up north. Came in through a tower near A&M. He was moving, though. South. Jumped towers twice. Probably on the parkway.”

  “Send some patrols up north. Bet that’s where the victims lived.”

  “Pretty big area.”

  “We might get lucky.”

  “We could use that about now. I’ll give you a call if anything turns up.”

  I then called Claire’s cell. She answered on the second ring. I could tell she was in her car.

  “Where are you?”

  “On my way. Is something wrong?”

  “He just called. Where are you?”

  “Bankhead Parkway. Headed up the hill.”

  “Don’t stop for anything or anybody and step on it. Is anybody following you?”

  “No. It’s pitch-black.”

  CHAPTER 45

  THURSDAY 12:02 P.M

  “WHAT’S THIS ALL ABOUT?” WEXLAR ASKED AS HE ENTERED HUBLE-in’s office.

  “I don’t know. Pearce just said to get down here.”

  “Must be something from his surveillance.”

  “I assume.” Hublein moved to the bar. “I don’t like this, and I don’t trust Pearce. He’s a loose cannon.”

  “Let’s wait and see what he has to say.”

  “It won’t be good news.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “You’re entirely too optimistic.” He poured two inches of Scotch and gulped it in one swallow, then poured another. “Want some?”

  “Maybe I’d better.”

  He sloshed a healthy amount into another glass and handed it to Wexlar. He then downed his second shot and refilled it before retreating to his desk. He sat with a heavy sigh. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe it’s good news.”

  “Good news could wait until tomorrow. Good news could be given over the telephone. Only bad news is given in person
… in the middle of the night.”

  “Maybe.”

  Hublein hooked a finger beneath his shirt cuff and lifted it to glance at his watch. “Where the hell is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And who the fuck does he think he is? Calling and ordering us here with no explanation. He’s a goddamn Nazi.”

  “Thank you.”

  Both men jumped. Pearce stood in the doorway. Hublein hadn’t heard him enter the outer office or open the door. He simply appeared. Dressed in all black, he carried a black canvas bag over his shoulder.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Pearce continued.

  “What’s this all about?” Hublein asked.

  “Brian Kurtz.” Pearce dropped his bag on the floor, its contents protesting with a metallic clank.

  “What’s in there?” Hublein asked, indicating the bag.

  “Things that don’t concern you.”

  “Listen, you arrogant asshole,” Hublein said. He pulled his huge frame up and leaned on his desk. “I don’t know who you think you are, but this is our institute, not yours.”

  Pearce didn’t flinch, didn’t show a speck of emotion. “And my job is to protect it and this project.”

  “And us?” Hublein didn’t even try to hide his sarcasm.

  “Protect you, protect the project. Same thing.”

  “So, what is it?” Wexlar asked.

  “Kurtz, your problem child. Broke into a house.”

  “Broke in?” Hublein said. “Was he caught?”

  “By whom? The two corpses he left behind?”

  Hublein felt the blood drain from his face and settle in his legs. They felt heavy and unsteady. He sank back into his chair. It creaked under his weight. Wexlar retreated to the sofa, sat down, and buried his face in his hands.

  “My God.” Hublein clasped his hands together to stop their shaking. “I knew this was out of control.”

  “It gets worse.”