by Michael Beck
CHAPTER 42
The next day at training, Decker and I did run-throughs while the team separated into offence, defense and special teams. We did a twenty-yard sprint, walked back to the marker and did it again. Decker's leg still gave him trouble, so we only did fifteen sprints at three quarter pace. Decker was quiet. He seemed preoccupied which, after our conversation of yesterday, didn't surprise me.
His fitness was improving and I thought he'd be able to play soon. I could tell he was itching to get back to work. After our run-throughs we did some throwing, and Decker started to really put his back into it. After each throw, he would look over at Hastings who was running plays with the offence.
Training ended and players started to wander back toward the locker room. Sam Jeffries, Davis and Lamar were chatting on the sideline. Hawk, who was resting from training today due to general soreness, was sitting behind the hydration-tables, talking to Decker's agent, Chester. He was wearing a flashy black suit with white shoes. Chester was talking animatedly, touching Hawk's shoulder and waving his hands.
Locker room talk was that Chester had been trying to bring Hawk over to his "stable." With Decker's future up in the air, the agent was said to be even keener to get Hawk.
"Hey, rookie," Hawk called as he noticed us. "Where have you been? I thought we'd lost you? How's that arm going?"
He laughed and leaned forward to pick up his water bottle from the hydration-table, on which stood water bottles and foam cups filled with Gatorade. The trainers were in the process of refilling the bottles and they were, at the moment, lidless. I threw the ball I held. It struck Hawk's water bottle, just before his hand reached it, sending the bottle flying, spraying Gatorade over them.
Both Hawk and the trainers jumped to their feet. "Hey!" Hawk yelled.
"The arm seems okay, but thanks for asking," I said.
As they stood brushing their suits, a foam cup on the bench suddenly exploded, spraying them with more Gatorade.
"Mine's pretty good, too," said Decker.
Decker and I exchanged a look. His mouth twitched and a gleam I hadn't seen in his eye before appeared. He nodded at me and picked up another ball. He threw again, knocking another water bottle off the table. My next ball followed seconds after his, smashing a cup. In turn, we threw ball after ball. Water and Gatorade gushed and sprayed over Hawk and Chester, who flinched and ducked as cups and bottles went flying. Finally, we ran out of footballs.
Decker grinned at me. "That was a good training session."
"I think I need to work on getting more spin on the ball," I said.
"We can work on that next time," Decker agreed.
We'd left the field and were walking down the corridor to the locker room when a woman's voice came from behind us. "Mark."
Bob.
"I'll meet you in the changing room," I said to Decker.
He glanced curiously at Bob. "Funny way you have of staying low."
"You're preaching to the converted there," I said. "But there is such a thing as a force of nature."
"You mean like a tornado?"
"Tornado be damned. I mean Bobette Sakomma."
I hadn't spoken to Bob since our night together two days ago. Most women would take this as a slight. Bob, I quickly realized, couldn't care less. She never referred to that night. It was like it had never happened. I wasn't used to women acting like this. Normally, that was me. It was like I had slept with myself.
"Funny tactics for a guy trying to break into an NFL team--disappear from training for two days. Where have you been?"
"I had a slight calf niggle so I had a couple of days off."
"You seemed pretty spry out there for a guy with a calf niggle."
"A pure life has its rewards."
"Pure life, huh? I'm not so sure about that. How pure were you in the Army?"
She held my eyes for a moment before looking away. "I haven't broken our pact. I'm not going to print anything."
"Gee, thanks."
"Look, I couldn't help it. I saw your Special Forces tattoo, so what was I to do?"
"How about nothing?"
"Nothing, you may as well ask me to...to--"
"Stop breathing?"
"Well, I wouldn't be so dramatic, but when I get an itch I just have to scratch it. And you, goddammit, give me the biggest damn itch I've ever had."
"So, I'm like a case of crabs now? Gee, thanks."
"You're welcome." Completely ignoring my sarcasm, she moved on as if that was all settled. "Now, how does a nine-fingered, twenty-nine-year-old Army vet get drafted by the New York Turbos?"
"Like you said, I am spritely for an old guy."
"You weren't always though, were you?" She kept her voice low. "According to hospital records, when you arrived you were at death's door. You had two bullet wounds, septicemia, malnutrition and a temperature of one hundred and five degrees. No one thought you would live."
"That'll teach me to run through Central Park at night time."
"Yeah, Afghanistan is just as bad I hear. Care to tell me what happened?"
"It's a long story and a long time ago."
Her eyes gleamed like blue diamonds, cutting through the dark of the corridor. She slowly nodded. "Fair enough. Why the fake name?"
"How did you find out?"
"Once I saw the tattoo and knew Bear served in Afghanistan it was easy. You know, Mark Rennat isn't the most creative alias ever used. Tanner backwards. What were you thinking?"
"I had a bad day...and year."
"You can tell me. I won't print it. You're here to help Decker, aren't you?"
She had joined all the dots. But could I trust her? A story to her was like crack to an addict. To my surprise I found myself answering truthfully.
"Yes. I'm trying to protect him and to find out who has been trying to wreck his career."
"You're a private investigator?"
"Not exactly. I'm a fitness trainer."
"Right...a fitness trainer." Her skepticism was plain.
"Sometimes I also do favors for people," I added.
"Big favors, I hear. You were the one who rescued Brooke Wentworth, the tennis player, two years ago?"
"I heard it was her bodyguard."
"Ah huh. Do you know you never answer a question directly?"
"Are you sure?"
She grinned. "You're a real bastard, aren't you? So, who are you doing the 'favor' for this time? Not Decker. You didn't even know that was his home."
"A friend."
She tilted her head and I was hit by the full force of her eyes. I felt like a bug under a microscope.
"That girl outside the police station?"
Damn. How did she do that?
"Who was she?"
"Bear's sister." I felt her piercing stare again.
"I saw the way you were with her. She wasn't just a friend."
"What are you, a witch?"
"I've seen her with Decker, haven't I? That must make for some interesting conversations between you two?"
"There's nothing between Liz and me. That was over long ago."
"Ah huh. I get the feeling the gentleman doth protest too much."
"Is it somewhere in your job description you have to annoy me as much as possible? If it is, you're doing a grand job."
"So, do you still think someone is out to ruin Decker?"
"Too many things have been happening to be coincidences. No one is that unlucky."
"Any idea why someone would be out to ruin him?"
"I think so."
"Well, is there any chance you can tell me?"
"Bob, I don't want this on the front page of the paper. If this gets out, this person will either disappear or be on his guard."
"I won't write anything until you give me the okay. How's that?"
"And you may not be able to write the full story. It might ruin Decker."
"I can't make any promises about that. All I can say is that I will only write the truth."
"Yeah,
well tell me when you find it. Personally, I've never met it."
* * * *
"Three victims, all male, between thirty and forty-five years of age," said Bear.
"That can't be the only thing they have in common," Faith said. "There must be something else."
We were in the kitchen of the rooms Bear had built for me at the Special Forces Fitness Center. I had transferred my Cupid operation there, once Bob had discovered where I lived. She knew I was in the Army. The last thing I wanted her to know was my connection to the Cupid killings.
How long I could keep this all from her was moot. She was like a dog looking for a lost bone. Why I was silly enough to sleep with her, I didn't know. Then a picture of Bob lying naked on my bed flashed before my eyes. Oh, yeah, that's why.
The walls of the kitchen were covered with crime scene photos, arrows, names, addresses and brain-storm theories. Our files were pretty thorough, thanks to Mole's computer skills and Fulton's help. Bensen may not have wanted anything to do with me, but Fulton had been happy to provide us with details of the police investigation. So long as I didn't interfere in their investigation and passed along anything I found to him.
The only thing that really mattered was catching this monster. Bensen could have the publicity. All I wanted was Cupid.
"Different jobs, different backgrounds, some had families and some didn't. They don't seem to have much in common," said Bear.
I pointed to the photos of the three crime scenes. In my dad's there was a statue of Jesus on a shelf. In Abrahams' living room there was a picture of an angel.
"Abrahams and my dad were both members of a church."
"Yes, but Abrahams was Jewish, your dad was Catholic and Symonds wasn't a member of any religion, so it's hardly a common thread," argued Bear.
"You're right, Symonds wasn't religious. But he was a good person though, wasn't he? I remember his wife telling me how he volunteered at a camp for underprivileged kids each year."
A thought occurred to me. "Good people," I said slowly. "They were all good people."
"Yes, they were. And we'll find the bastard that did it," said Bear.
"No. That's not what I mean. Good people. Don't you see? That's who he's choosing. Only good people. My dad and Abrahams were both members of a church. My dad and Symonds were both good parents. Abrahams bought uniforms for the local baseball team and helped out his neighbors with money problems. I haven't heard of one skeleton in their closets. Have you? They were all good people."
"So he's not just picking his victims from church congregations," said Faith. "How the hell does he find good people? They're not exactly listed in the Yellow pages?"
"Yellow pages? Hell, this is New York. He's already killed three. There won't be any left," said Bear.
"We need to look into each of the congregations Abrahams and my dad belonged to. That's probably their connection. With Symonds, perhaps we need to be looking at any volunteer or charity work he might have done. Cupid must somehow be associated with these groups."
"Like youth groups, sporting clubs and charities?" said Faith.
"Yes, any organization to do with helping people."
"So Cupid is killing good men?" said Bear. "And now a teenage girl. Jesus, it just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it? He is one sick fuck."
"It's gets worse than that." Fulton had appeared in the doorway behind me. His face was as hard and unforgiving as a block of granite.
"How can it be worse than that? This guy is targeting good men and has cut the heart out of a girl."
"Not one girl. Three," said Fulton.
CHAPTER 43
The cellar smelt. Bad. He would have to get more lime when he next went out. He'd had the worst case of stomach flu he'd ever had. Although he'd got over the worst of it two weeks ago, it had left him too weak to dig. The cold ground was rock hard at this time of year. Or maybe it was his age. He couldn't remember having it this bad before. He supposed once you reached sixty anything you caught was worse.
He shut and bolted the door behind him and descended the stairs. The cellar was about twenty yards long by seven yards wide. Years ago, the floor had been just hard-packed dirt that was always damp and musty after heavy rain. Now half of the floor was cemented. Not professionally. Truth be told, it probably looked like a kid had done it. When he'd first started sinning fourteen years ago the finished cement was smooth and even. Any home handyman would have been proud of the job.
As the years passed, and his health deteriorated, so did the quality of his workmanship. It was like a time-picture of his mind. At the start it was professional and well-constructed. Each time he had to complete a new section, the quality deteriorated. Rough patches and bumps began to appear. By the time he cemented the middle, the finish had become lumpy and uneven like an earthquake had struck.
He wished an earthquake would strike and destroy this evil place, and him along with it.
He hated coming down here. This place was a constant reminder that he had sinned and failed God again. He brushed the tears off his cheeks and turned the light on. He stood still, as he did every time he came into this room, and stared at the far wall.
The angel upon the end wall was enormous, eight feet tall, unquestionably male, and incredibly lifelike. Each muscle and tendon was meticulously delineated. Its pure white wings were outspread, their tips stretching from side wall to side wall. Its left hand was extended, cupped as if about to receive something unutterably precious. In the other arm he carried a girl, little more than a child. The girl's head was draped back and her eyes were closed, as if she were sleeping. But of course, she wasn't.
What grabbed him by the throat every time was not the magnificence of the painting or even the pathos of the helpless child. No, what held him riveted each time was the eyes. The angel's blue eyes. Fierce, unrelenting, unforgiving, burning. They both frightened and mesmerized him. The eyes made a lie of the angel's facial expression which was one of unearthly compassion and loving kindness, as if they had looked upon the face of God. But of course, they had not. He had painted it and he knew he would never see God. He had sinned too much.
It was the best painting he had ever done.
He never failed to wonder how he had created this masterpiece. In comparison, all of his other work might have been done by a child. The irony was that he could not even remember doing it.
His memory was like that. Large slabs of his life were gone, like lost pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. And every year it was worse.
He went to the freezer that stood in the near corner. He reached in and struggled to lift the blanket-shrouded form. The blanket stuck, frozen to the walls of the freezer. He pulled and jerked and the ice released the fabric with a screech. He fell backwards with the bundle on top of him. Panting and moaning, he crawled from underneath it and struggled to his feet, while trying to regain his breath.
A moan ripped out of him. The blanket had fallen away revealing the face of a girl with long, blonde hair. To his horror, he saw that her eyes were open and appeared to be staring at him. He couldn't stand to look at them. They seared his soul. He reached down to close them. A groan escaped his lips when he touched her. She was as cold and hard as a slab of marble. He couldn't close her eyes. Her eyelids were frozen open.
He folded the blanket back across the girl's face and placed her in the hole he had dug at the edge of the cement floor, crying the whole time. He had never intended to be evil. His whole life he had tried to be good. He had tried to resist his temptations but they were too strong. As he picked up the shovel, he heard the doorbell ring upstairs.
He left the shovel beside the hole and locked the cellar door behind him. He had to answer the door. He couldn't take the chance of someone coming into the house. He brushed the dirt off his pants and sweater, and then opened the door.
Sister Immaculata stood on the porch.
"Hello, Sister."
"Hello, Father," she replied.
CHAPTER 44
; "In all three cases, Tanner, Symonds and Abrahams, a girl went missing in the week prior to their murder." Fulton threw three 8X10 photos onto the table. They were headshots of teenage girls.
"Susie Hanlon, Leah Spence and Annabelle Simpson. Susie was eighteen and Leah and Annabelle were thirteen. All were from New York City. In that order, each one disappeared in the week prior to the murder of one of the men. They have never been found."
Silence.
"So what are we saying here?" said Faith.
"We are saying," Fulton said angrily, "that Cupid apparently abducts a girl, kills a middle-aged male within a week, and sticks the girl's heart in his body."
"Fuck me dead," said Bear.
"The Tanner and Abraham murders appear to be the exception, because the killer was disturbed before he could complete his modus operandi," Fulton said. "We still don't know if there are other killings he has got away with. Judging by the Symonds case, it is likely there are. He was very clever in destroying the crime scene and making it look like an accident."
"So Cupid has some kind of fixation on teenagers," Faith said. "Sort of rules out Cupid being female."
"More than a fixation," said Bear. "To kill them and rip their hearts out, he must hate them profoundly."
"And yet he didn't touch Jade," Faith murmured.
"If you could call fracturing her skull and leaving her with a long term brain injury, I suppose so," said Fulton.
"But why didn't he kill her? You said he kills a girl before he kills a man?"
"He'd already killed a girl, Susie Hanlon. She disappeared three days before Tan's parents were killed. So he didn't need her. And Jade was only six at the time. All of the girls he targeted were teenagers. Jade was probably meant to have died too, but he was disturbed by Tan before he could torch the house."
Faith nodded. "He must have got a hell of a shock when he saw there was one survivor."
"What strikes me as odd is the difference between the girl's ages," I said. "There is a big difference between an eighteen--year-old and a thirteen-year-old. One's virtually still a kid, the other is an adult. Why did he choose Susie Hanlon, an eighteen-year-old, before my parents' death and two thirteen-year-olds before Symonds and Abrahams?"