Show of Evil

by William Diehl

  'What'ya mumblin' about?' St Claire asked.

  'Cockamamie DA, never does anything at normal hours. It's always the middle of the night or dawn. Always spur of the moment - '

  'Blah, blah, blah,' said Vail. 'You can always say no.'

  'You pay too well,' Hawk answered.

  'Then stop bellyaching,' Vail said.

  'Bellyaching is good. Bellyaching is normal. I love to bellyache. If I didn't bellyache, I'd be a fruitcake by now.'

  'Ain't nobody ever told ya, Hawk. You are a fruitcake,'

  St Claire said, and stuffed a wad of tobacco under his lip.

  The gripe session was cut short by the squawk of the radio. It was Harris, who was still on duty.

  'I got some bad news from Winthrop, Marty,' he said, his voice getting hoarse from lack of sleep.

  'I'm prepared for that. Lay it on me.'

  'Molly Arrington's dead, Martin. Spread-eagled on her bed, body mutilated, probably was raped. The weirdest thing about it is, he pumped her full of enough morphine to kill her even if he hadn't cut her up. He also printed in blood on her torso the words "I'm waiting". Does any of that make sense to you?'

  Vail was thinking about Molly. Gentle Molly, who had never hurt a soul in her life. 'Nothing that bastard does makes any sense,' he said angrily.

  'He stole her car, probably been on the road at least two, maybe three hours. There's nothing you can do there, Marty. The creep could be anywhere.'

  Vail did not answer immediately. He thought about the message.

  'I'm waiting.' And then suddenly it did make sense. There was only one place Stampler could go. He couldn't go back to Chicago and by now the whole country knew the story. He would go back to where it had started. Vail grabbed the sectional map and traced a path with his finger south from Shelbyville. His finger finally found what he was looking for.

  'I know where to find him,' he said. 'We'll pass on Winthrop. Head for Crikside, Kentucky.'

  'Huh?' Hawk said.

  'Where?' Harris said.

  'Crikside, spelling C-r-i-k-s-i-d-e. Call the Kentucky HP and fill them in. Hold on a minute.' He made an arch with his thumb and forefinger and measured the distance south of Indianapolis.

  'About one hundred and seventy-five miles and we're still one hundred miles from Indianapolis. How about it, Matt, how long?'

  'What, two hundred and seventy-five miles? Hour and a half, maybe two. What's the weather like down there?'

  'Who cares?' said Vail.

  'I care!' Hawk hunched down in his seat and shoved the throttles forward. 'I know the weather's for shit,' he said.

  'Just keep flying south towards Louisville.'

  'You really think that's where the son-bitch's headin'?' St Claire said.

  'There's no place else left for him to go,' Vail said. 'He had this thing planned out perfectly. He sneaked out of the halfway house. His plan was to kill Jane and me while Rebecca killed Shoat. She sneaks back to her place, he sneaks back into the halfway house, and we would be his alibi.'

  'How about Rebecca takin' off Shoat's head?'

  'She collected trophies, remember?' said Flaherty. 'It's what serial killers do, just like hunters collect antlers or animal heads. That was her trophy, Harve. She was going to send it to Abel, the way she left the photo of Linda Balfour when she killed Alex Lincoln.'

  'Stampler only made one mistake,' said Vail.

  'The call to the hospital,' said Flaherty.

  'Right,' agreed Vail. 'And he underestimated Jane Venable. When he couldn't kill her, he was on the run, his plan was blown. His face is on every TV station in the country by now. My guess is, he's playing head games with me now.'

  'And he killed Molly Arrington -' Flaherty started to say.

  'To goad me. He's finished and he knows it.' Vail finished the sentence. 'He's going to make catching him as tough as he can. Let's say he snatched the doctor's car at eleven, eleven-thirty. That put him in Shelbyville at around two A.M., about the time a waitress spotted the car parked in a handicapped zone. Winthrop's just outside the outskirts of Shelbyville. He could've walked to Arrington's house from there in, say, half an hour. That puts him at Arrington's at between two-thirty and three. An hour to do his dirty work and get out with her car. From there to Louisville is about a hundred miles, say another two hours.'

  'So he was in Louisville maybe half an hour ago,' Hawk calculated.

  'It's another one hundred and twenty miles to Crikside. If he gets through the weather he could be in Crikside, say, two and a half, three hours from now. With luck we may just catch him while he's still on the road.'

  'We gotta stop and refuel,' Hawk said.

  'Do it in Louisville,' said Vail.

  'Mind if I ask a question?' Flaherty said.

  'What's that?' Vail answered.

  'We don't even have a warrant for Stampler. Is this legal?'

  'I'm making a citizen's arrest,' said Vail.

  'Citizen's arrest?'

  'That's right. I'm arresting him for stealing Molly Arrington's car. We'll charge him with the rest of his sins when we get him back to Chicago.'

  'Citizen's arrest.' St Claire laughed. 'You sound like Barney Fife.'

  'Sounds like kidnapping to me,' grumbled Hawk.

  'Well, keep that notion to yourself,' Vail said.

  The radio squawked to life again. Harris's calm voice reported the latest developments. 'We've alerted the Kentucky state cops and the sheriff of the county, but they got traffic problems down there. They got themselves a spring snowstorm and a lot of traffic problems.'

  'A snowstorm! I knew it. I knew it!' Hawk howled.

  'Just keep flying,' said Vail.

  'They aren't all steamed up over the possibility that he might have killed a woman and he might be on his way to Crikside,' Harris continued. They said they'll get somebody over to check it out by noon or one o'clock.

  'Shit,' Vail snapped.

  'I got some more bad news,' Harris went on. 'Indiana HP popped the trunk on that car. The doctor's body was inside. Broken neck.'

  'That makes three so far he's personally killed,' Vail said bitterly.

  'One other thing, Arrington's car is a '93 black Camaro two-door, licence: J32 576. Got that?'

  'Got it.'

  'And be careful, you're flying into the Cumberland Mountains down there. Good luck.'

  'Thanks for the help, Buddy. Over and out.'

  'Snow and mountains,' Hawk groaned.'Two of my favourite things. All we need now's a little ground fire to make this a dream vacation.'

  Thirty-Nine

  The chopper swung over the low ridge and dropped down closer to the road. Snow flurries splattered against the windshield. Below them the two-lane blacktop was still discernible although the snow was beginning to cover it. They had seen only three cars in the last twenty minutes. Hawk's gaze jumped from window to windshield as he roared two hundred feet over the rugged terrain. Beside him, Vail was navigating from a roadmap. They were following the state road that led to Crikside. Behind them, St Claire and Flaherty also scanned the road, Flaherty with a pair of binoculars. Hawk glanced at the clock.

  Nine-twenty-two.

  'How am I doing?' he yelled.

  'We're about ten miles from the place. It's just over the next ridge.'

  'I can't even see the next ridge,' Hawk said.

  'It's eight or nine miles ahead of us. He can't be far ahead of us, not with the road conditions the way they are.'

  'I thought we'd pick him up before this,' Hawk answered. 'He must be driving like a madman - if he's coming here.'

  'He's coming here,' Vail answered with finality. 'He just stopped off in Winthrop long enough to satisfy his blood lust, claim another victim.'

  'I think we missed him,' Hawk said.

  'We ain't missed him,' said St Claire. 'Marty's right, been right all along.'

  'You having one of your nudges?' Flaherty asked without taking his eyes off the road.

  'This ain't a nudge, it's a reali
ty,' Vail said, imitating St Claire's gruff voice. Their laughter eased the tension.

  Flaherty leaned forward, the binoculars tapping the side window. 'I got some tracks,' he said.

  'Where?' the others asked, almost in unison.

  'Right under us. They're blowing off the road, but there's a car somewhere in front of us. Can we get lower?'

  'This thing don't do well underground,' Hawk answered. But he dropped down another fifty feet.

  'See anything?' Flaherty asked Vail.

  'I can't see that far up the road. I'm not sure how close we are to that ridge. Maybe we ought to gain a little altitude. I can't tell exactly where we are on this map.'

  'There it is,' said Flaherty.

  They peered down in front of the chopper. Through the rushing snowflakes a car was visible racing through the storm.

  Flaherty said, 'It's black… I can't tell the make, but it's a two-door.

  'Gotta be the son-bitch,' St Claire said. He stuffed a fresh wad of tobacco into his cheek.

  'We're coming up on that ridge,' Hawk said. 'We could be a couple hundred feet short.' He pulled back on the throttle, easing the chopper's speed.

  'You're right on top of him,' said Vail. 'Slow her down a little more.'

  Hawk cut the power a little more. He was heading for the ridge at about fifty miles an hour.

  Below them, Stampler heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter. He looked out the car window. It was no more than a hundred feet above him. To his right was another ridge, thick with pine trees. Ahead of him he saw a turnoff. A faded sign said:

  KC&M

  HILLSIDE DIVISION

  Stampler hit the brakes and almost lost it. The car skittered across the road, showered up snow as it ripped through a low drift, and then swung back on the road. He got the car under control and turned into the road. A wooden horse was stretched across the entrance. Stampler tore through it, showering bits of wood into the trees. The macadam road was pitted by disuse and bad weather. He was having trouble keeping the sedan on the road. But he was climbing up the side of the ridge, forcing the chopper to gain altitude.

  But it didn't. He could hear it, chung, chung, chung, chung over his head. The car skewed beneath him, its wheels spinning helplessly on the snow-packed road. He lost control, slammed on the brakes, and sent the car into a wild spin. It teetered on the edge of a ditch, then spun out the other way and plunged off the road. Stampler saw the trees hurtling towards him, crossed his arms over the steering wheel, and put his head against them as the car swiped one tree and crashed into the one beyond it. The bonnet flew up and shattered the windshield. Stampler's arms took the brunt of the blow. Numbly, he felt for the door handle, pulled it back, and tumbled out of the car. Small whirlwinds of snow spun around him and he looked up. The chopper was fifty feet over his head. He dived into the trees and started running.

  Hawk looked around at the forest that encroached on him. Tree limbs reached treacherously out over the road.

  'I'm not sure I've got enough room to put down here,' he yelled. 'But it's a helluva lot safer than trying to follow him up this damn mountain.'

  He lowered the helicopter slowly to the ground. The rotors thrashed at the tree limbs, snapping them off, scattered the debris into the air. Hawk eased it down, felt the skids hit the ground and settle in.

  'Okay, we're down,' he said, and Vail, Flaherty, and St Claire scrambled out. Vail vaulted the ditch and took off after Stampler, with Flaherty close behind. St Claire wasn't as lucky. He slipped on the muddy bank and fell, twisting his ankle.

  'KeeRIST!' he yelled. Vail turned, raced back to him.

  'Just get goin',' St Claire said. 'It ain't broke. Here, take this.'

  He pulled the .357 from under his arm and handed it to Vail. When Vail hesitated, St Claire said, 'Hell, you might not use the damn thing, but it's one helluva good scare card.' Vail took the gun and ran off into the forest.

  Stampler stumbled out into a clearing, gasping for breath, clutching at the pain in his side. He was in front of the shambles of a wooden office building, boarded up and rotting. He stared around at the snowy landscape. His gaze settled on the muscular steel framework of a lift. It was vaguely familiar, the relic, now idle and rusted. A large sign said:

  CLOSED

  TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

  KENTUCKY COAL AND MINING COMPANY

  Even obscured by snow, the place began to take on an air of familiarity. Memories began nibbling at his mind and with them a gnawing sense of apprehension. In his mind, he heard the sound of the lift clinking and groaning as it lowered men into the guts of the earth. Blackened faces and haunted eyes filtered through his flashback like demons in a nightmare.

  He remembered awakening on his ninth birthday, seeing the hard hat with the ominous lamp on the front perched on the chair beside his bed, and the fear that went with his 'present'. He remembered shrinking down on the bed, trying to keep from crying, knowing that on this day he was going down into the hole, that fearful pit, for the first time; being so terrified, he threw up on the way there; and the boss man standing right where he was standing now in front of the office, looking down at him, grinning, telling him today he was going to become a man. 'Stampler!'

  Stampler turned and, there, across the snowy clearing, stood Vail. Perhaps fifty yards away, on the opposite side of the clearing. From the corner of his eye he saw another man emerge from the forest, a younger man, who joined Vail. They stood and waited for him.

  Stampler started across the clearing, past the ghostly silhouette of the lift shaft, heading for the opposite side of the clearing, the snow squeaking underfoot as he made his way across a low mound that separated him from his nemesis. 'Stampler!'

  Vail raised his hand. He was aiming a gun at him. The other one, the younger one, also had a pistol, but he stood with his gun hand lowered at his side. The ground seemed to groan underfoot. Vail aimed the gun over Stampler's head and fired a shot. Its thunder echoed through the trees and snow showered down from the limbs. Stampler stopped, glared across the white expanse at Vail.

  'You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man, would you, Counsellor?'

  'Don't kid yourself.'

  Stampler leered at him. 'Know what it's like, now, don't you, Marty? Blood for blood. We're not that different, you and me.'

  Vail did not answer. He pondered the question, thinking about the carnage of the last twelve hours; about Abel and Jane fighting for their lives; about Shoat and Dr Rifkin and a good cop and poor Molly Arrington, innocents all, sacrificed on Stampler's altar of vengeance. And about Rebecca, who had planted the seeds of Stampler's hate and also had the blood of Alex and Linda on her hands. Five people dead, three in just half a day, and two gravely injured. And of all his targets only Vail had escaped the madman's wrath.

  Stampler slipped back into his Crikside accent for a moment. 'Now, yuh know what I main, Marty. Feel it, don't yuh? A hurtin' in the chest. Yer stomach's on fire. Head feels like it's in a vice and somebody's squaizin' it tighter and tighter. Got a hard-on waitin' fer it't' happen. You feel it, don't yuh, Marty? The urge to kill.' Vail's finger tightened on the trigger. 'Or maybe I shouldn't call you Marty? Too familiar. How about Mr Vail? Or Mr Counsellor? Mr Prosecutor? Martin? Oh, help me, Martin,' he jibed, slipping easily from one accent to the other. 'Ah'm so scairt and confused. I lost time, Martin, and Ah jest know sompin' terrible has happened. Plaise help me, suh.'

  Hate ate up Vail's insides, assaulted his head, gnawed at his heart. Stampler was right, he wanted to squeeze the trigger, watch the bullet rip into his chest. He wanted to watch Stampler die.

  'Marty?' Flaherty said behind him.

  'Stay out of it, Dermott.'

  'Let me go bring him in. You're making me nervous.'

  'How 'bout it, Martin? Can yuh help me, suh?' Stampler began to laugh. 'I'm goan turn 'round now, I'm jes' gonna walk away from you. Go ahead, shoot an unarmed man in the back. That's what you want to do, isn't it?'

  'He's pushing you,
Marty.'

  Vail felt the cold trigger against his finger. His fist tightened a little more.

  'I know what he's doing,' Vail said. 'I'm going out there and get him.'

  'Stay right there, Dermott, can't you read the sign?' The sign, weather-scarred and leaning sideways in the drifting snow, said:

  DANGER

  UNSAFE

  DANGER

  This mine shaft has been sealed

  No admittance to this area

  DANGER

  UNSAFE

  DANGER

  And behind it the mound in the snow was the cover that had been placed over the shaft years before. Vail called out to Stampler. 'Put your hands behind your head and walk towards me.'

  Stampler walked away from them. 'Ah'm leavin now, Martin.' He laughed harder. 'Catch me if you can.'

  'You're standing right over mine shaft five, Stampler,' Vail called to him. 'The hole. Remember the hole?' He pointed to an old sign lying near the shed:

  KC&M MINE

  NUMBER FIVE.

  Stampler hesitated. He looked back at Vail and Flaherty, then at the rusting lift mount. The groaning, clinking, awful sound it used to make rang again in his ears. He looked down at his feet and his gaze pierced the snow and boards and plummeted into the darkness. He saw twelve men - eleven men and a boy - suspended under the steel mount, being lowered from the land of the living into that pit of pure darkness; men, old long before their years, bent over and stooped from chopping away at walls of coal; saw the light at the top of the shaft as it shrank, growing smaller and smaller until he couldn't see it any more; dropped into air that smelled of bad eggs, with his mouth so dry his tongue stuck to his teeth. Dropping down into hell. A pitch-black hell.

  'What's with him?' said Flaherty. 'He's just staring at the ground.'

  The boards under Stampler's feet whimpered and sagged ever so slightly. Stampler stared at his feet. Snow cascaded between the boards. His jaw began throbbing as his pulse increased. He took a step forward. The ancient boards, ruined by years of bad weather and neglect, groaned as Stampler's weight tortured them. The platform sagged even more. He stopped - afraid to move ahead and afraid to stay in place. He took a giant step, put his foot down gently, leaned forward, and swung the other leg beside it. There was a crack under his feet. It sounded like a rifle shot as the board underfoot broke.