But when news of the shooting began to filter through the crowd, only a few let out a cheer. Others fell to their knees and started to cry. And in the end, the group fell silent and began to disperse.
As they left, they dropped their banners on the ground and removed their shirts as though embarrassed and ashamed.
Erik didn’t understand why.
Chapter 40
Inside the Jeep, Hackett quickly unsnapped the blackout curtain from behind the driver’s seat and sealed off the cargo area from prying eyes.
He lowered the cot for Frankie so that he was out of the way, then downloaded the images from his camera to his laptop and launched Photoshop.
The freeze-framed images that filled the screen were stunning.
One shot showed Hudson defiantly giving the finger, while the second — taken a split-second later — showed the back of his skull exploding into fragments, a cloud of blood, brain and bone spraying across the uniform of the officer behind him. Hudson’s left eye was wide with shock; his right, a hollowed socket of torn flesh.
Another shot showed Hudson’s neck twisting at an awkward angle as his head jerked forward and a plume of blood erupted from his throat. A few frames later, blood spouted from Hudson’s left eye, a misshapen sphere of pulpy flesh leading the charge like the head of a comet.
Hackett’s pulse raced. Regardless of the circumstances, these were the best photos he had ever taken.
The final frame showed the killer, but his face was turned away.
Hackett zoomed in to adjust the sharpness and contrast, but there wasn’t much he could do to salvage it. When he was done, he found himself staring at the blurred, unrecognizable profile of a boy barely into his teens. There was a rectangle of white, the size of a business card, dropping from his hand.
Hackett’s disappointment was forgotten as Frankie asked: “Is it always like this? You could have been killed back there.”
Hackett, his eyes alight, turned to his cousin.
“It’s never like this,” he said. “Photographers dream of this, they go to wars around the globe for this, but most never see it even once in their whole careers.”
Frankie frowned. “You look like you’re enjoying it.”
Hackett shrugged, not wanting to admit the truth. “There’s nothing I can do for the poor bastard in the alley. But when I get these pics out there, maybe K.A.R.M.A. will leave our families, your dad, my friends, the fuck alone.”
Hackett could tell from his cousin’s face that he didn’t buy it. And, he had to admit to himself, the justification for what he was doing did sound weak.
“Look,” he continued, “I’m going to be busy here for awhile. Why don’t you play your Gameboy or something?”
“Fine,” Frankie huffed. “Seen and not heard, right?”
Before Hackett could answer, Frankie pulled aside the black curtain to climb into the front passenger seat. He had earbuds stuffed in his canals before the curtain swung closed again.
Alone, Hackett tethered his cell to his laptop and went online. When he logged onto the fishing chat, Fats was already there.
HACK: Fats, I need U
FATS: Am I still talking to you?
HACK: Course. I rescued U
FATS: You’re also responsible
HACK: Look, U know I’m sorry. What more can I do?
FATS: Move to Alaska?
HACK: I don’t wear fur
FATS: LOL — You’re a piece of work
HACK: Hey, that’s why U love me, right?
FATS: What do you need?
Hackett explained the nature of the photos.
FATS: Is this to do with KARMA?
HACK: They sent me up here
FATS: Christ, Hackett. Are you going to pull the trigger next?
HACKETT: It just happened. I’ve got the pictures now. I can’t ignore them
FATS: They’re sucking you in, man. These pics may fill your bank account, but what will they ask in return?
HACKETT: These shots are golden, bro. I can’t let them go
Hackett waited on the edge of his seat as Fats went silent for a good twenty seconds.
FATS: I’ll help this time, but you gotta get your head clear. They’re fucking murderers. What do you need?
Hack explained he needed contact information for all the top newspapers across Canada, plus he needed Fats to send out feelers about selling the pictures in the U.S. and international markets. This was going to be huge.
FATS: OK, I’ll get started on this end
HACK: You’re a pal
FATS: I’m a fool
HACK: Who am I to argue ;-)
Hackett logged off and called Chandra. She answered on the first ring.
“Can’t talk long,” he said.
“What’s happened?” asked Chandra anxiously.
“K.A.R.M.A. has struck again.”
“Give me details.”
“Charles Hudson, convicted fifteen years ago of murdering eleven girls, was gunned down in the alley behind the B.C. Court of Appeal. The police don’t know it yet, but the shooter is a teenage boy linked to K.A.R.M.A.”
“How do you know it was K.A.R.M.A?” asked Chandra.
“Why else would I be here?”
“How do you know the shooter was a teenager?”
“I saw him.”
“Whoa. Recognize him?”
“No.”
“How many shots were fired?” asked Chandra.
“I counted three, but I can’t be definite.”
“Is Hudson dead?”
“It’s a safe bet. The back of his skull was blown off.”
“You have those pictures?”
“Yep, and they’re killer,” said Hackett proudly. “Probably the best I’ve ever done.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“Make my fortune.”
Chandra laughed. “Looks like this could be a lucky day for both of us.”
“Yeah.” Hackett studied the picture of Hudson crumpled on the ground, the shocked face of the cop behind him, his uniform splattered in brains and blood. “But be careful,” he added softly. “We don’t know what this group is planning next.”
“Hey, if I was careful I wouldn’t be going out with you.”
“Charming.”
Chandra laughed again and disconnected the call.
Hackett shook his head, and then dialed the photo desk of the Vancouver Sun.
It was time to work.
Chapter 41
Chandra disconnected from Hackett and glanced at the large analog clock that ticked off the seconds between broadcasts. She had twenty minutes to get ready for the next one.
A quick check of the news wires showed the story of Hudson’s death had yet to be reported, but it only took a couple of mouse-clicks to track down all the background material she needed on the original murder charges and Hudson’s appeal process.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Suzy Q, who leaned over her desk in such a way that one’s vision was filled with a perfect pair of tits framed in scoop-necked cashmere. Chandra hated those tits.
“What you working on, Chand?” Suzy’s girlish tone and wandering eye made it clear that she didn’t really care.
“Just getting ready for my 4 o’clock.”
“Oh, okay, I was just wondering if . . .”
“Yeah, go home. No point hanging around here on your last day.”
“Thanks, Chand, you’re such a doll.”
“True.”
Suzy giggled. “We’ll still see each other at media functions and such, right?”
Not if I can help it, thought Chandra, but she smiled and nodded.
Suzy fluttered her fingertips and picked up her handbag. When she walked across the room, every pair of male eyes fixed on her toned ass as though in silent ovation.
Chandra snorted loudly and returned to her computer. Suzi Q didn’t have a fucking clue what was happening out there and the Channel 4 crew was going to have a maj
or toilet-clogging shit when they heard Chandra’s story over the airwaves.
Chandra wrote:
K.A.R.M.A. has struck again.
KXLY has learned the organization that is claiming responsibility for butchering a local businessman earlier this week has moved north to Canada where, just moments ago, one of its members assassinated notorious child killer Charles Hudson.
In a KXLY exclusive, a source on the scene claims a teenage boy, who is a K.A.R.M.A. member, fired at least three bullets into Hudson as he was leaving a downtown Vancouver courtroom.
Our source also informs us it is highly unlikely Hudson could have survived his injuries.
Hudson had been trying to win early parole after spending 15 years behind bars for the murders of 11 young girls in the British Columbia province of Canada.
Earlier today, K.A.R.M.A — which KXLY has learned is an acronym for Kids Against Rape, Murder, Abuse — claimed it was exacting punishment against Seattle-area mutual funds salesman Bob Collins when it slit his throat in a Volunteer Park washroom.
At that time, K.A.R.M.A. also issued a warning to this reporter that this was only the beginning of its bloody campaign.
It would seem now that K.A.R.M.A. has stuck to its word.
Chandra quickly reread her story and grinned. If that didn’t make people sit up and take notice, nothing would.
She fleshed out the bottom of the story with background information on both Collins and Hudson, and ended with the statement:
Police are still refusing to divulge any information on Collins’ activities that would have led to him becoming a target of K.A.R.M.A.
AT TWO MINUTES before 4 p.m., Chandra settled into the sound booth and took a deep breath. She knew her first words would be the beginning of a shit storm that would soon blanket the entire country.
Chapter 42
By end of day, Hackett estimated he had pulled in close to $80,000 in photo sales, and that wasn’t counting the deals Fats was putting together to sell some of the gorier shots to the supermarket tabloids and international press.
It was more money than he had made in his entire career.
Most of the North American newspapers bought two pictures each: the one-finger salute and the following frame that showed the first, fatal shot that removed most of the back of Hudson’s head. The bolder newspapers bought a sequence showing all three hits, but most found those too graphic for breakfast consumption.
The single frame of the shooter was also popular, despite its poor quality.
The shots showing Hudson crumpled on the ground hardly sold at all as that was the only shot every other photographer on the scene had been left with.
BY END OF day, Chandra was worn out.
She had been interviewed by every media person in the city and finally managed to grab her 15 minutes of fame by appearing on most television stations in the state.
She even made a live appearance on CNN, choosing to be interviewed outside where the setting sun made her skin glow and her hair shine. Naturally, she had unhooked the top two buttons of her blouse and worn her non-prescription, designer-frame glasses for that natural, intrepid-but-damn-sexy journalist look.
The most controversial part of her report had been the identity of the shooter as a teenage member of K.A.R.M.A. Without police verification, the rest of the media was initially reluctant to broadcast that angle. However, once a few threw caution to the wind, the rest quickly followed.
The best part of the attention was the absence of any mention of Suzi Q’s departure for the Channel 4 breakfast show. Even Channel 4 never dared bring up the subject.
Chandra’s last thought before going to sleep was that she wished Hackett had made it home. Feeling this good was never quite enough unless you could share it.
And, besides, she was horny, too.
BY END OF day, Eric was curled in a doorway with knees tucked high against his chest.
A thin blanket of crimson dust from the decaying brickwork had settled upon his body, and the thumb of his left hand had inadvertently found its way between his lips. The nail was torn and raw, the flesh bright pink and wrinkled as a prune.
Even with his eyes open, Eric fought back flashes of what he had done.
The details were so clear: the tiny, almost imperceptible red ring that appeared as the first bullet exited Hudson’s skull; droplets of sweat that beaded on his skin, so large and crisp they could have been lakes; and his eye, a glistening orb that seemed detached from the face. The eye was a dark window that had threatened to take his nerve and destroy it unless Eric shattered it first.
Eric wanted to go home, to crawl into bed and pull the covers firmly over his head. But he couldn’t go home until K.A.R.M.A. had taken care of the Other as Cypher promised it would.
He had wanted to speak with the family tonight, but Cypher hadn’t sent the email directing him to the chatroom, and he didn’t have enough money to hang around the café all night waiting.
Hopefully in the morning, Cypher would be in touch to tell him what he should do next.
As he drifted off to sleep, Eric tried to fill his thoughts with images of Jacqueline, but Hudson’s destroyed eyes refused to allow him escape.
Chapter 43
Hackett awoke with his lungs burning as the carbon monoxide buzz of morning rush hour clogged the Jeep’s interior.
With a lurch, he scrambled off the cot — wearing only his bright yellow, Flintstones’ Yabba-Dabba-Doo boxer shorts — and swung open the side door to inhale a lungful of morning air. His sudden exit startled a longhaired native peeing on the Jeep’s back tire. The waft of fresh urine burned Hackett’s nostrils.
“Charming,” Hackett muttered as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
The man ignored him and continued to pee. When he was finished, he held out his hand and grunted.
“What?” Hackett asked grumpily. “Is that supposed to be performance art?”
The man continued to hold out his hand.
Hackett patted the sides of his boxer shorts to show he had no pockets. The gesture didn’t seem to impress.
Hackett sighed. “Hold on.”
He ducked inside the Jeep, located his jeans and pulled out three, one-dollar bills. He handed one over.
The man looked at the crumpled, sage-green bill and stared dumbfounded into Hackett’s face.
“They’re good. They’re American,” Hackett explained. “All the stores up here take them.”
The man sucked on his teeth and walked away without a word.
“You’re welcome,” Hackett called after him.
Frankie groaned his displeasure from the Jeep’s front seat.
“Morning, Cuz.” Hackett scrambled back inside and pulled on his clothes. “What do you say we grab some coffee and get back home before your dad sends out a posse?”
Frankie rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and nodded.
CHANDRA AWOKE TO a ringing phone.
When she answered it, her station manger, T.J. McNeil, blurted excitedly, “Everyone’s talking.”
T.J. was an Elmer Fudd lookalike with a penchant for expensive suits that tried unsuccessfully to hide his midlife paunch. After one too many martinis at the last office Christmas party, he had asked Chandra if she found a man in a corset sexy.
She had never been able to look at him the same way again.
“Great,” said Chandra, trying to sound equally excited.
“The phones have been ringing off the hook,” said T.J. “Every news station in town is scrambling for the follow-up.”
“What about the police?” Chandra asked.
“They’ve been calling, too, and I told them you would speak with them after the morning press conference.”
“What press conference?”
“The Collins’ widow called it. Everyone’s been hounding her about her husband’s past. I mean you tossed him in the same league as that Hudson monster. He must be pretty damn evil.”
“I didn’t toss him anywhere,”
said Chandra defensively, “K.A.R.M.A. did.”
“Yeah, whatever,” said T.J. dismissively. “Plus, and you’ll love this, rumor has it there’s been another murder linked to K.A.R.M.A. This one in New York.”
Chandra was awake now. “Do we have details?”
“Not yet, but I need you on the case.”
“I’m there.”
Chandra hung up and dashed for the shower. For the first time since breaking the story she was no longer leading the pack, and she didn’t like the feeling.
HACKETT STOPPED AT the first Starbucks he saw and ordered a large dark roast for himself and a French Vanilla latte for Frankie. The morning papers were scattered on every table with Hackett’s photos dominating the covers of the Vancouver Province, Vancouver Sun, Globe & Mail and National Post.
One headline screamed: WHO KILLED THE KILLER? Another read: MURDER OR JUSTICE? A third: MONSTER SLAIN. A smaller headline on a sidebar story in the Globe read: “Lucky” lensman in right spot.
Hackett checked his credit line on each image, pleased they had all spelled his name right. The buzz in the coffee shop was electric with everyone talking about Hudson’s cold-bloodied assassination.
Hackett studied each paper’s coverage. The city’s daily broadsheet had given him the most column inches, but the tabloid Province had done a nice job, too, by focusing in tight on Hudson’s startled face. The best color reproduction went to the Globe, although the crop was awkward as they tried to eliminate as much of the blood spray as possible.
Hackett was surprised to see Chandra’s name highlighted in the Sun story as the one who had linked the death to “a mysterious group known as K.A.R.M.A.” Under pressure from the media, the Vancouver police had finally admitted that a white business card with the letters K.A.R.M.A. printed on it was found at the scene.
As the story continued, it was clear that no one had a clue exactly what K.A.R.M.A. was. And Hackett had to admit, neither did he.
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