Frank cursed some more as he dropped to his knees on the carpet and crawled to the table. There, he grabbed the bottle and tilted it high to swallow a mouthful before his poisoned brain could mount a protest.
The whiskey was as sour as second-hand piss, but the next swallow eased his stomach, and the third quieted the hoof beats inside his skull.
Disgusted with himself, Frank left the bottle uncorked and rose to his feet. This time he made it, both knees locking noisily in place. But then his head began to spin and he clutched the wall for balance.
It reminded him of a joke attributed to crooner Dean Martin: You’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on.
Frank knew he wasn’t close to sober. Which reminded him, what the hell time was it? He dug his watch out of his pocket and studied its face, but the hands didn’t seem to make any sense.
“Carol!” he yelled. “What time is it?”
There was no answer.
“Christ, Carol!” He staggered across the room until he reached the closed door. “What time is it?”
Still no answer.
He opened the door and stumbled into the hallway at the bottom of the stairs.
“Carol?” he called again. “Frankie?”
The house was silent.
Grumbling under his breath, Frank hauled himself up the stairs and into the tiny bathroom shared by both bedrooms. The house was small — less than 600 square feet per level — and he had often promised to move Frankie into the attic and turn his bedroom into an on-suite for Carol.
Like most things he promised, it had never come to pass.
Frank dug in the medicine cabinet, trying to decipher the packaging in his search for Aspirin. Usually when he had a headache, Carol would fetch him the necessary medicine. Now, none of the boxes or canisters looked familiar.
Finally, he spotted his son’s migraine prescription, recognizing it only due to the purple Mr. Yuck sticker that Carol had stuck near the label. She was always treating the kid like he was still, well, a kid.
With shaking hands, Frank wrestled with the childproof cap until his thumbs ached and his lips grew tired from cursing. Finally, he nestled the plastic canister in his palm and slammed it against the edge of the sink.
It shattered.
Four aqua-blue pills and a wad of cotton fell into the sink along with shards of broken plastic.
Frank grinned as he popped one of the pills in his mouth and tried to swallow. His mouth instantly dried up again and the taste of the pill made his stomach churn. Shuddering from the acrid taste, Frank scooped the three remaining pills and the wad of cotton into his hand and turned on the tap.
He drank deeply, drowning the pill and washing the unpleasant taste from his throat. When he was sated, he looked at the mess in his hand. The pills were stuck to the cotton, the dampness of his flesh having made their plastic membranes melt and the color run.
That’s when he saw the tiny plastic bag buried inside the cotton cloud. Frank picked at the bag, thinking he could place the remaining pills inside. But when the bag was free, Frank was surprised to see two curly pubic hairs nestled inside.
“What the fuck?”
What does he want with these?
Then the answer came. They must belong to a girl. Frankie was collecting trophies of his conquests. But the boy was only fifteen. Frank never speared his first piece of tail until he was nineteen. Fifteen was too young, wasn’t it?
It suddenly hit Frank that he had never had a heart-to-heart with his son about sex. There was so much filth out there. Christ, half the hookers he collared were men in drag or worse, and the other half were so busy sticking needles in their veins that the life expectancy of a street whore was calculated in months, not years.
He wondered if Frank knew about condoms.
Frank looked at the hairs again. They didn’t really look like they belonged to a young girl. In fact, when you moved them away from each other, you could see one of the hairs was actually more gray than dark brown.
Frank slipped the plastic bag in his pocket and moved across the hall to his son’s room.
The hairs bothered him.
Frank opened his son’s closet and began to rummage inside.
He didn’t know what he expected to find.
Chapter 74
Cypher stared down at the sleeping woman. She was even more beautiful than she had been in the garage.
Here, with her head on a white pillow, her hair was spread wildly around her face like an ebony frame.
She didn’t seem real.
More like a fairy tale, he thought. Snow White, but with darker, sexier skin.
He felt a stirring within him — a strong desire to do things. He wanted to tear off her clothes and roll around on her like a dog with a dead skunk.
He wanted to pierce her skin, to probe and explore, break her fingers and suck marrow from the bones. He wanted to completely ravage her.
A fever built within him, making him grab the blanket from around her throat and yank it down. Her body was covered in shapeless white cotton.
All moisture was sucked from his throat.
His eyes burned.
His skin itched.
He placed his hands on her chest and squeezed. He could feel them, her breasts, a welcoming softness just beneath the harsh cloth.
He squeezed them harder, wanting the flesh to pour from between his fingers.
He closed his eyes, relishing the tightness that rose between his thighs.
He imagined sliding between her breasts, his flesh and hers melding together; the skin breaking as the ribs opened to him and he plunged into her, straight to her heart.
A strange noise made him open his eyes.
Chandra was staring straight back at him.
She was also screaming.
Loudly.
Chapter 75
Frank stared at the denim jacket in his hand and felt hot tears run down his cheeks. The sleeve of the jacket was smeared with dried blood as though someone had made a half-hearted attempt at cleaning it.
A closer examination showed more traces along the collar and shoulder, and he was sure that a forensic light would make the material glow with inky black stains.
He also found blood in the stitching of his son’s favorite sneakers. But the worst news was a crumpled business card taped inside the shoe.
It had been placed there to cover a brass rivet that must have broken through the leather.
The white card was identical to one the detectives found at the scene of his brother’s murder.
Frank collapsed on the carpet, his brain swirling as every nerve end from his toes to his eyelashes burned with electrical fire.
He desperately needed a drink; a strong, piss-sour, never-ending drink. But in that moment he knew, he would either open the bottle and drown or he would never touch the damned stuff again.
Chapter 76
Hackett heard Chandra’s scream the moment he stepped off the elevator. His aunt had stayed in the lobby to locate Frankie who must have wandered away from the benches.
Without a second thought, Hackett dropped his coffee and sprinted down the hall. When he burst through the door, there were two nurses and an older doctor trying desperately to calm Chandra down.
The doctor had a syringe in his hand and was struggling to hold Chandra’s arm steady enough to plunge it in.
“STOP!” Hackett yelled. “No more fucking drugs.”
“Who are you?” barked the doctor. He leaned on Chandra’s arm, pinning it.
Hackett stepped closer, his voice a menacing growl.
“Put that needle in her arm and I’ll toss you out the fucking window. That’s who I am.”
“Get security,” the doctor cried.
The two nurses looked at Hackett. They were both struggling to hold Chandra down. One of the nurses was the woman who had bumped into Hackett earlier.
“She needs to calm down,” said the young nurse. “She’s hysterical.”
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Hackett seethed. “No more drugs.”
When the doctor hesitated, Hackett stepped in front of him and dislodged the man’s grip on Chandra’s arm. The doctor staggered back, the syringe gripped in his hand as if it was a knife.
Finding her arm suddenly free, Chandra lashed out at the nurses, her nails curled like claws. Both women jumped back in terror and surprise.
Completely free of her bonds now, Chandra sat up. Her eyes were wild and her hair spilled across her shoulders like a nest of water moccasins.
Her face was tight with anger, but then her trembling hands reached for Hackett and she burst into tears. Hackett sat on the edge of the bed, holding her tight and whispering softly, the meaning of the words unimportant.
The doctor glared at the two of them a moment longer before turning abruptly and leaving the room.
The two nurses soon followed.
AUNT CAROL ARRIVED and stood between the curtains, not sure where to look or what to do. Eventually, Chandra calmed down but her eyes remained hot with anger.
“I’m in hospital?” she asked.
“Fats brought us here.”
“He sprayed me with something,” she said. “I felt myself being dragged, but I couldn’t open my eyes.”
“He drugged you,” said Hackett. “Fats managed to trace your pager and lead me to you.”
Chandra’s eyes went wide with fright. “He was here,” she said. “Just now.”
“Are you sure?” Hackett’s eyes spun to take in the empty space. “You’ve been through a lot.”
“He was here!”
Chandra tore open her robe to expose the tops of her breasts. They looked tender and bruised as though someone—
Aunt Carol gasped and Chandra turned to face her.
“It was your son,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “He tried to kill me.”
Chapter 77
Frankie exited the hospital and stepped on the first bus that pulled up outside. He hadn’t heard an alarm as he walked quickly through the hospital, and no one had tried to block his way.
They would probably think Chandra was hysterical, he reasoned. She wakes up in a strange place and of course she’s going to scream.
But what if she recognized him?
What if she remembered what he had done?
And the more he thought about it, the more he realized there wasn’t a chance in hell she would ever forget.
Chandra wasn’t just beautiful, she was smart, too. A reporter, who with his help, had become more important than she ever dreamed.
He had watched her on TV, telling her story — telling his story. It was obvious she was too pretty for radio or print. She belonged on TV.
In fact, he had done more for her than Hackett ever could. Hell, for that matter, he had done more for Hackett’s career than Hackett ever could.
Chandra shouldn’t have screamed when she saw him, she should have opened her arms and embraced him.
Frankie felt a bead of sweat on his upper lip, and realized that an old, prune-faced woman in the next aisle was looking at him with concern.
Had he spoken aloud?
He glared at the woman and carefully mouthed: “I want to fuck you.”
The woman gasped and turned away.
Frankie giggled, relishing the indestructible power of his youth.
But then the woman turned around again, and in her hand, she held a tiny black canister. Emblazed on the front was the logo of a fierce Grizzly bear snarling from within a red circle.
Frankie instantly recognized it as commercial pepper spray. It wasn’t as powerful as the canister he had stolen from his dad’s arsenal, but it could produce the same blinding effects.
The old prune pointed the canister at him and flipped the lid to access the trigger.
Frankie jumped to his feet and fled to the rear of the bus, but the woman wasn’t satisfied. She scooted her way to the edge of the seat, the pepper spray still aimed in his direction. If she pulled the trigger in here, Frankie knew, she would blind them all, including the driver.
Frankie cursed and yanked on the cord above the window that ran the length of the bus. A tiny bell told the driver he wanted off.
Frankie could see the bus shelter one block ahead, but the old lady was nearly at the edge of her seat now. The look on her face was one of pissed-off determination.
Frankie lashed out at the rear door with his foot. It rattled but didn’t open.
“Right here’s good,” he yelled down at the driver.
The driver ignored him.
“I gotta shit, man,” Frankie yelled. “If you don’t let me out, you’ll be scrubbing this doorway for a week.”
The driver turned to look at him just as the traffic light turned red. When the bus stopped, the old woman slid off her seat and stood up. The canister looked steady in her hand although the rest of her trembled.
“I’m begging you, man,” Frank cried. “I’ve really gotta go.”
The driver shook his head in disgust before pressing the button that worked the hydraulics on the back door. It swooshed open just as prune face was about to hit the trigger. Frankie dived for the sidewalk, stumbled and fell, his left knee grinding painfully on the cement.
When he looked up, the lady was pressed against the window, her middle finger extended.
The light turned green and the bus moved on.
Frankie cursed as he looked down at the rip in his pants and saw blood oozing from his knee.
He felt like crying.
The whole day had gone to hell and he didn’t know how to fix it.
Chapter 78
Hackett stared open-mouthed at Chandra.
“Frankie is Cypher?” he asked incredulously.
“That’s how he got to me,” Chandra explained. “I was promised an interview with the kid who killed Hudson. When I arrived, Frankie showed up to escort me. He said he was part of K.A.R.M.A. We walked to a garage nearby, but as soon as I entered he sprayed me with something. I don’t even remember putting up a fight, and the next thing I know he’s squeezing my tits in this bed.”
“What are you talking about?” Carol’s tone was angry. “My son is not a killer.”
“If he’s Cypher,” said Hackett. “Then he killed Bob.”
“You’re crazy,” said Carol. “You’re both crazy. My son is as gentle as they come. Why would he murder his own uncle?”
Hackett tried to swallow the sudden dryness in his throat. “Were he and Bob ever alone?”
“Of course,” said Carol dismissively. “Bob looked after all the kids. He had that boat, remember? You used to love that boat. Frankie, too.”
“When did I start avoiding him?” Hackett asked.
Carol shrugged. “I don’t know. You grew up. You and Bob drifted.”
“When did Frankie start avoiding him?” Hackett pressed.
Carol looked at him blankly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” Hackett was unwavering. “When did Frankie change? When did everything turn upside down, and how long have you avoided asking the one question that might have helped?”
Carol began to shake and moisture sprang to her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”
“I’ve done it myself,” Hackett seethed. “I’ve avoided the question until it’s burned a hole deep in my soul. Think, Carol. Think about when it all changed.”
Hackett was shaking now and Chandra clutched at his hand. Anger coursed through his body.
“Bob did it to me,” Hackett said finally, his voice cracking. “And I said nothing. I put it away. Buried it so deep that not even I could find it.” Hackett swallowed, struggling to keep his composure. “I didn’t think about my cousins ... about Frankie. I thought it was my fault, something I had done that made Bob do what he did. I thought it was just about me.”
Chandra crushed Hackett’s hand against her breast. Her cheeks were streaked with tears in sympathy for his pain.
“But it
wasn’t just me,” continued Hackett, fighting to get the words out.
He looked at his aunt, fixing her gaze with his own. His vision was blinded by tears. “I let everyone down and I’m so, so sorry.”
Carol reached across the bed and took hold of Hackett’s free hand. She rubbed it between her own as tears dripped from her nose, cheek and chin.
“I didn’t know,” she said desperately. “I swear I didn’t know.”
Chapter 79
Frankie entered a cyber café, ordered a steamed Mocha and logged onto one of his numerous email accounts. This one identified him as Benito Dominguez. It was the name he had used to rent the garage where he had kept Chandra.
After launching Microsoft’s instant chat program, Frank waited for his contact to respond.
The feeling of helplessness as he sat on the sidewalk, close to tears over his skinned knee, had left him once his fingers began to play the keyboard.
Here, surrounded by computers, he was no longer a scared 15-year-old kid.
He was a powerful entity.
He was a killer.
He was Cypher.
DIGGER: Benito, como esta usted? What’s happening?
BENITO: I’m in trouble, amigo. Any activity at the garage?
DIGGER: Si. Federales all over
BENITO: Are they inside?
DIGGER: Si. You return and they’ll swarm your ass. Banga, bang
BENITO: Gracias. I owe you
DIGGER: Si. You owe me grande, compadre. Hasta Luego
Cypher took another careful sip of his drink, knowing he needed to stay focused and organize his thoughts.
Obviously, Chandra had talked to the cops by now, which meant his mother would have been told, perhaps even his father.
Would they believe her?
Cypher didn’t think so. Without evidence, Chandra could prove nothing. But all the same, he could never go home again.
Strangely, that thought didn’t bother him. Instead, it gave him pause to wonder just exactly when home had lost its feeling of sanctuary.
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