by Barry Lyga
“Yes, please,” Connie deadpanned.
He laughed. “Seriously. Come on.”
“We’ll take it slow.”
“We’ve been taking it slow. Because of me. You know it’s true, Con. Any other guy would have been all over you after a week. We’ve been together for almost a year.”
“Maybe those guys would have been all over me, but they wouldn’t have gotten anywhere. And you wouldn’t have gotten anywhere, either. Not that soon. I wasn’t ready. Not then. Now I am. Any man worth having will wait for his woman to be ready. How can I not return the favor?”
And that was when Jazz knew Connie was more and better than he deserved.
“I’ll just have to get by thinking about you while I’m in the shower,” she went on. “It’s gotten me this far.”
Jazz groaned. “You just had to put that image in my head, didn’t you?”
“It’s a pretty great image,” she admitted. “All that lather and soapy bubbles making me slick and shiny.” Her voice dropped, low and sweet.
Jazz adjusted uncomfortably. “I surrender. We need to change the subject. You’re killing me.”
He could almost hear Connie’s delicious smile over the phone. “What are we supposed to talk about?”
“I don’t know. Tell me what you were doing while I was with the cops yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.” She quickly filled him in on her mini-tour of some of the murder sites.
“Crime scenes,” he corrected her. “It’s possible they were murdered elsewhere and dumped there.”
“Right, right. Anyway, there was this graffito—”
“Graffito?”
“It’s the singular of graffiti.”
“Now you’re just messing with me.”
“I swear to God. Graffiti is plural. It’s like data and datum.”
“No one says ‘datum.’ ”
“People who speak properly do,” Connie sniffed. “Anyway, someone had painted Ugly J.”
“Ugly J? Why did you even notice that?”
She explained how it had stood out. “So someone went back afterward and left that tag,” Jazz mused.
“Maybe the killer? They go back to the scene, right?”
“Sometimes. Not always. It’s just as likely it’s some smart-ass tagging crime scenes. Some kid’s idea of a sick joke.”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t stylized or artistic. Like, most taggers have a style. A little finesse. They want it to stand out, to be noticed. But this was just there. It was like doing your homework in Arial or Times New Roman. And before you asked: I already Googled Ugly J. Didn’t find anything.”
“It’s probably some New York thing.”
“I love the way you say ‘New York’ with such contempt,” Connie said, laughing. “You were there, what, thirty-six hours? And you already hate the place.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
“Sure. Let me tell you about the bath I took the other day….”
He groaned. Eventually, they hung up, and Jazz went to take the coldest shower in the history of cold showers. He tried not to think of Connie in the shower, too, but that task wasn’t particularly easy to accomplish. He had a very, very vivid imagination.
Emerging dripping and freezing, he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed back to Billy’s old room. His clothes were scattered on the bed, so he picked through them for an outfit, shoving aside the sheets of paper.
But he just couldn’t let them go. Every time he touched those papers, it was as though they had some sort of psychic/magnetic attraction to him. He felt compelled to read them every time. This time was no different—cold and half-naked, he scanned his father’s letter, then looked over the Impressionist’s vile “shopping list” and its strange appendix.
And that’s when he saw it. And once he saw it, he couldn’t unsee it. In fact, he wondered how he could have possibly not seen it until now.
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU TO
GO NEAR THE DENT BOY.
LEAVE HIM ALONE.
YOU ARE NOT TO ENGAGE HIM.
JASPER DENT IS OFF-LIMITS.
He blinked and looked again. It was so obvious:
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU TO
GO NEAR THE DENT BOY.
LEAVE HIM ALONE.
YOU ARE NOT TO ENGAGE HIM.
JASPER DENT IS OFF-LIMITS.
In his relatively short life, Jazz had disturbed crime scenes, stolen and tampered with evidence, broken into the morgue, and illegally photocopied official police files. Now he broke most of Lobo’s Nod’s speed limits on his way to the sheriff’s office and compounded his criminal career by breaking the state law about cell phone use while driving; he just kept getting G. William’s voice mail.
“Lana?” he demanded, now having gotten through to the police dispatch line. “Lana, it’s Jasper Dent. Where’s G. William?”
Lana had a thing for Jazz—even seeing him handcuffed late that one night for breaking into the morgue with Howie hadn’t dissuaded her. Now she was flustered, stuck halfway between trying to make small talk with him and answering his question. “Well, he’s—he just stepped—are you okay, Jasper? Can I help you, maybe?”
“I need to see G. William. Is he coming back to the office?”
“Sure. I just saw him pull up. He’s—”
“Tell him I’m on my way,” Jazz said, and hung up. Soon, he pulled into the sheriff’s department lot, parking Billy’s old Jeep right next to G. William’s cruiser. Someone should get a picture of that, he thought.
Inside, he blew past the reception desk, blowing off Lana, who smiled and tried to get his attention. He found G. William in his office, grinning and leaning back in his chair. The sheriff saluted Jazz with a massive mug of coffee that said SUPERCHARGED! on it.
“G. William—”
“Settle down, Jazz. You got ants in your pants again.”
“Is Thurber still here? Has he been transferred yet?”
G. William slurped some coffee. “He’s here. Catch your breath. Stroke at your age is a hell of a thing.”
Jazz took a deep breath and compelled himself to calm down.
“You come on a social call, or is this business?” G. William asked. “ ’Cause I do have some news for you. Somethin’ you might find interesting.”
Okay, sure. Jazz let out that deep breath and let the tension all along his spine dissipate. “Is it about the new coffee cup?” he said with forced friendliness.
“And there’s the keen powers of observation that brought down the Impressionist.”
“You’re stoned on caffeine, aren’t you?”
“I gotta admit—when there’s more coffee in the cup, I tend to drink more coffee. You think this is why my leg feels all numb and tingly?”
“Could be.” Without being asked or invited, Jazz slid into one of the chairs across from G. William’s desk.
“In all seriousness, though,” G. William said, leaning forward, “I should tell you about a couple of things been going on in town.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. We had three cars parked in no-parking zones yesterday. And Erickson pulled over the Gunnarson girl for texting while driving.”
“And…?”
“Not a goddamn serial killer among ’em!” G. William guffawed, slapping a meaty palm on his desk. “Not a murder, not a maiming, not a missing person! It’s almost like being the sheriff of a small town!”
Jazz allowed himself a tiny grin. “You’re positively giddy.”
“I think I’m entitled. Don’t you?”
It was true. For a small-town sheriff to go after two serial killers in one career was unprecedented, as far as Jazz knew. A return to the petty, mundane crimes of Lobo’s Nod should be celebrated, and G. William had every right to do so.
“I’m glad for you. I really am. But I need—”
“You need something so big and important that you called my cell half a dozen times and then scared the poop outta La
na and then barreled in here like you were on fire. Jazz, you’re seriously gonna give yourself a stroke.”
“Please listen to me,” Jazz said, and then quickly explained Connie’s discovery in New York, along with the acrostic he’d uncovered in the Impressionist’s pocket.
G. William listened, occasionally sipping at his coffee.
“It could be the world’s most incredible coincidence,” he said.
“You don’t believe that for a minute.”
The sheriff shook his head. “I want nothing more in this world than to believe that. I want to believe that there’s no connection between the guy in lockup waiting to be transported to court and the guy killing people in New York. Mostly ’cause that would probably mean there’s a connection to your daddy, too. So, yeah, I want to believe it’s all a coincidence, but I’m not as dumb as I look, which is a hell of a good thing.” He heaved himself out of his chair. “Let’s go.”
Jazz rose to follow him. “Don’t we have to check with his lawyer first?”
“Usually, yeah. But the Impressionist has made it clear that he’s always available to see you. As long as there’s no cops present, you can talk to him whenever and however long you want. You just can’t report it to us or tell us about it, ’cause then it’d be off-limits in court. But hell—he’ll talk to you all day long, if you want.”
“Lucky me,” Jazz muttered.
G. William led him back to the holding cells, which were empty except for the one farthest from the door, in which sat Frederick Thurber, the Impressionist.
He’d been in the Lobo’s Nod jail since his arrest before Halloween. Lawyers from the Nod were fighting with lawyers from just over the state line—where the Impressionist had murdered a woman named Carla O’Donnelly—over which state got to try him first. And then there was a district attorney in Oklahoma who claimed that the Impressionist had also killed someone in Enid, long before taking on his Billy Dent–inspired sobriquet and modus operandi. Fortunately, the federal government was staying out of it—for now—preferring to let the states waste their time and resources. All three jurisdictions in question had the death penalty, so Thurber was heading for Death Row one way or the other, the feds figured.
The whole thing was a snarl of legalese and lawyerly posturing, the upshot of which was that Thurber remained in Lobo’s Nod until everyone could agree who would get the first pound of flesh from him.
Thurber glanced up as the door to the holding cells opened, then sat up straight when Jazz came through the door. Jazz thought maybe there was a small smile playing across his lips, but who knew what it looked like when a madman like the Impressionist smiled? Jazz kept his face impassive, his spine stiff, as he approached the Impressionist’s cell. The Impressionist stood and turned to the front of the cage, staring as though the bars didn’t exist and he could walk right up to Jazz if he wanted.
“Now, I can’t stick around, so I’m just leavin’ you with a warning,” G. William said sternly. “Don’t even think about hurting him.”
“I won’t get close enough to the bars for him to touch me,” Jazz assured him.
“I wasn’t talking to him,” G. William said wearily, and left.
Alone, Jazz didn’t get the chance to speak before the Impressionist said, in a voice oddly high and thin from disuse, “Jasper Dent. Princeling of Murder. Heir to the Croaking.”
The Croaking? Was this crap for real? He’d almost forgotten how completely delusional the Impressionist was. Thurber thought that Billy Dent was a god, that Jazz was destined to the same divinity.
“Come to learn the truth?” the Impressionist asked. “Come to accept your destiny? It’s not too late. It’s never too late. Jackdaw!”
The man was babbling. He was falling apart, Jazz realized. That made no sense. He should have been doing well. Serial killers tended to thrive in rigid, institutional settings. He’d read all sorts of case studies on guys like Richard Macek, who had turned into a model prisoner once incarcerated. When given limited options and no freedom, sociopaths tended to default to a sort of relaxed ennui. But the Impressionist was blowing the curve for the rest of the class. His eyes were glassy and possessed.
Well, there’s an exception to every rule. And you just met him. Jazz almost felt sorry for the man, but he thought of Helen Myerson and he thought of blowing air into Ginny Davis’s lungs, his hands slick with her blood. He thought of Howie, near death in an alley, slashed open by the Impressionist.
“I want to know about Ugly J,” Jazz said firmly.
Sociopaths never revealed anything; they were masters at concealing their emotions or of feigning emotions to cover when they knew a lack of affect would draw attention to them. He’d expected either a calm, savvy, knowing grin or a flat, reactionless glare.
Instead, the Impressionist actually took a step back; his hands twitched as though he would bring them up to shield himself, to ward something off. If Jazz didn’t know better, he would say the Impressionist was actually… afraid.
“Ugly J…” the man whispered. “No. No. Oh, no. Not Ugly J. We won’t talk about that. You’re not ready for that. Even I know that. I defied for you. I touched when I was told not to. But not Ugly J. I won’t.”
Jazz stepped closer to the bars. “Talk to me. What is Ugly J? What does it mean? Or is it a person? Is it a serial killer? Is it what Billy calls himself now?”
The Impressionist shook his head, mute. Jazz came right up to the bars, aware that the Impressionist could make a lunge and grab him.
“Tell me! Tell me about Ugly J!”
“Not ugly!” the Impressionist screamed. “Beautiful!” Considering what the Impressionist thought to be beautiful, that could mean a lot. “Beautiful,” he said again. “But the way you die is so ugly…! So ugly, Jasper!”
Ugly, Jasper. Ugly… “Am I Ugly J? Is that it? Talk to me. Tell me what you know. Who sent you that letter? Who gave you the list? You’re working with whoever helped Billy escape. I know that. You know things. You know things. You know things!”
“Jasper!” G. William shouted. When had he come back? He cried out Jazz’s name again, and Jazz realized it had been a long time—more than four years, the night G. William had arrested Billy and nearly shot Jazz—since he’d heard such panic in the big man’s voice. “Get the hell away from there!”
The Impressionist and Jazz both jumped back from the cell door at the same time. So close. He’d been right on top of the Impressionist. What could I have done to him? Reached right through the bars? What else, if G. William hadn’t showed up? The Impressionist now cowered near his bunk, shaking his head over and over like one of the deluded, driven-mad homeless people Jazz had seen in New York. What did I do to him? It’s like the idea of Ugly J flipped a switch—
“Goddamn it, Jazz!” G. William growled as he grabbed Jazz by the elbow and jerked him farther away from the cell. “I warned you, didn’t I? Didn’t I tell you?”
“Look at him. Look. He’s not a danger to me. He’s—”
The Impressionist chose that moment to make a liar out of Jazz, bellowing with rage and flinging himself at the bars of the cell with such force that Jazz flinched at the sickening thudding sound it made. The Impressionist staggered backward, groaning, his nose spurting blood. “Corvus!” he cried. “Corvidae!”
“Jesus H. Christ,” G. William swore. He hauled Jazz back into the station proper and barked into his shoulder mic for a deputy with a medical bag to the holding cells. “… and have an ambulance sent over, too, just in case. Got that?”
“Got it,” Lana’s voice came from the mic. “Is, um, is everyone okay?”
Snorting with disgust, G. William said, “The boy prince is just fine, Lana. Get back to work.”
Moments later, they were back in the sheriff’s office, Jazz leaning against the wall as G. William railed. “—told you to stay away from the cell! He’s dangerous! Just because you think you’re invincible doesn’t mean you are invincible—”
“G. William,�
� Jazz said calmly, “why did you come in there in the first place?”
The sheriff paused mid-rant and blinked. “What?”
“Why did you even come into the holding cells? You weren’t supposed to be there.”
G. William’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, and then he gasped. “Oh, crap. I forgot! There was a call for you!” He grabbed up the receiver on his desk and punched a blinking light. “Are you still—Okay. Thanks. Sorry. We had a situation. Hang on.” He held the phone out to Jazz. “For you. FBI looking for you.”
“Uh-uh.” A shake of the head. “I don’t want to talk to them anymore. I’m tired of the feds.”
“This one says she knows you. Morales?”
Jazz’s curiosity got the better of him. Taking the phone, he answered, “Hello?”
“Dent? That you?” Morales’s breath came fast, her words stumbling on their way out. “I need your cell number. Now. Quick. I have to send you something.”
Jazz gave her the number, and a moment later his cell tickled his thigh.
“You have to see it to believe it,” Morales went on. “This changes things.”
He flicked on the phone and opened the text message from Morales. A photo was attached.
“… dumped last night, but as best we can tell,” she went on, “she was killed before the media started talking about you being here in New York….”
It was a crime scene. A body. Easy enough. Young woman. Brown hair. Naked. Gutted. The usual.
Written in lipstick over the sagging, dead lumps of her breasts was:
WELCOME TO THE GAME, JASPER
Part Four
5 Players, 4 Sides
CHAPTER 24
Connie’s grounding wouldn’t last until she was eighty, but it would probably feel like it. She knew she’d been grounded for a good, long time, no matter what clever lies or stories she conjured for her parents. Once school started on Monday, it would be school, then home. Period. When play practice started for the spring musical, she would be allowed to attend rehearsals, but that was it.