by Willow Rose
Where can she have gone to at this late hour? This is not good.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
July 2016
“It was posted on my Facebook wall. Here. Take a look for yourself.”
Joey looks at the computer screen. He is still shaken up badly about what just happened. Mary convinced him to call the police and tell them everything. He can hear sirens close by and hopes they have found Ian’s body. He made the call anonymously. It made him feel like even more of a coward.
“Blake says no police, then we play along, Joe. We can’t risk Salter’s life on it. Once they have Blake in custody, you step forward and tell them everything you saw,” Mary said, when he told her he felt like he let Ian Marks down for not stepping up as a witness. “Ian Marks is dead. It won’t help him. And, for now, it is best we stay under the radar. Blake knows we’re here and I think he will come after you if he knows where to find you. We can’t risk that.”
Joey reads the post on Mary’s profile, then turns to look at her. “It’s almost identical to the first one. Except a different date. But it’s the same time, a quarter past midnight.”
“Guess Blake wants the party to continue,” Mary says. “We better prepare for another long night of jazz music playing from each and every house. And this time it’ll be worse because now no one will dare not to let the music flow from their home. Not after what happened last time.”
“Not if we don’t publish it,” Joey says. “If no one sees it, then they won’t play. He can’t kill everyone.”
“First of all, it’s already way too late,” Mary says. “I am guessing that’s why it was posted to my wall. Because I have four million plus followers and a lot of them have already commented and shared the post. We’re talking seconds before it goes viral. Second of all, I don’t think he is planning on killing everyone who doesn’t play music. Like with Lisa Klein, he has already found his victim, and probably stalked her for days. The music part is just a gimmick, if you ask me. Him playing around with us all. Having his fun.”
Joey leans back in the chair with a sigh. “And you’re still sure it’s him?”
“A hundred percent.” She grabs the laptop and walks to the bed with it in her hands. “Gosh, it already has more than a million shares. This is not good.”
“But he was just with me in the alley. He wasn’t even home when the post was shared,” Joey says.
“There are a million ways he could have done it. He could have posted it from his phone while walking to the alley. The letter could have been written in advance and then all he had to do was copy and paste it onto my wall. It hardly gives him an alibi.”
“But why would he all of a sudden change his style? He has always killed randomly. Now there is a pattern all of a sudden?”
“We don’t know if there is, just guessing after two of them were related, but yes, I think he has changed his style. Still only stalking and killing women, though.”
“He never used to kill with an axe,” Joey argues.
“He got inspired when he learned the story of The Axeman, then decided that it would be a perfect cover up to be a copycat,” Mary says. “Why are you fighting me on this?”
Joey shakes his head. He rubs his eyes. “I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s him and I’m afraid you’re chasing a ghost. Not literally, but that we’re going in the wrong direction, spending all our energy and time on this Axeman when we should be out searching for Blake and our son, who is sick, by the way. I feel like time is running out and we’re focusing on all the wrong things. I think we should be out there with a picture of Blake and Salter, talking to people, asking them if they have seen them,” Joey exhales deeply. Mary has returned to the computer and doesn’t seem to be listening. “But, hey, what do I know?”
“What’s that, sweetie? No, I’m listening, it’s just, well the number is now at a million and a half. I think I need to call Chloe.” She grabs the phone, then looks at him. “I need to tell her so she can get on it, maybe try and track the anonymous Facebook profile and see if she can get a IP address or something. Maybe we can find him that way, don’t you think?”
She is never going to hear you. If you want something done, you have to do it yourself.
“You know what? I’m still pretty shaken up. I’ll go out and get some fresh air, if you don’t mind. I need it.”
Mary looks surprised. “No. Of course not. I’ll take care of it all. Don’t worry about it.”
Chapter Sixty
July 2016
Peggy barely makes it inside with the groceries before the phone rings. She growls and picks it up.
“Yes?”
“Mom. Have you heard?”
Peggy lights up at the sound of her daughter’s voice. It isn’t that often Claire calls anymore. Not since she got that job at the software company and has to travel constantly.
“Heard what?” she asks, wondering what her husband is up to.
Is he napping in front of the TV again? At least he could come and help me with the groceries. That’s the least he could do. It is, after all, him who eats the most around here.
“So, I take it you haven’t heard it, then,” Claire says.
“I can’t really tell you until you tell me what it is, now can I?” Peggy says with a grin.
Her busy daughter doesn’t see the fun in it. “This is serious, Mom. The Axeman has sent another letter.”
Peggy rolls her eyes. Not that again. They had the discussion last time too. Claire called and told her to play that infamous jazz music all night, just in case, but Peggy refused. She told her she believed it was all just a big joke or someone trying to make money, a PR stunt.
“Mom, someone was actually killed last time, remember?”
“Some young girl downtown. I don’t think the killer cares about two old people in the Carrollton District.”
“How about that couple that were attacked at the hotel, huh? The woman who was killed was in her sixties. The guy was in his eighties,” Claire says.
Peggy can hear she is tapping on her computer while talking to her mother. It annoys her that she has to work every hour of the day and can’t even take time off to talk to her old mother. It’s the same when she comes to visit. On the rare occasion that she does, she is on her phone, if not talking, then emailing and texting, constantly saying things like: I just gotta send this email, then I’ll be right with you or one sec, gotta take care of this. It’s important.
“Sure. But you’re still not getting me to play that awful music. All those awful notes. It’s all over the place. I would rather die; there, I said it.”
Claire scoffs. “Not even to save your life?”
“No. I am not going to do it.”
“I don’t know how you can live in New Orleans and hate jazz music, Mom. It makes no sense.”
“Well, I like it here,” Peggy says defiantly. She hates getting told how to be or act or what to like by her daughter, whom she believes is missing out on everything good in life just for the sake of a career.
Where are my grandchildren?
“Always have loved it here,” she continues. “Axeman or no Axeman. This is my town.”
“So, I take it you’re not going to play jazz music tonight to keep The Axeman from your house?” Claire asks, still typing on a keyboard, sitting in an office somewhere in the country; God only knows where this time. The company has one hundred and twenty offices all over the U.S., and Claire barely knows where she is half of the time.
Peggy doesn’t think it is much of a life to live, but never tells her. Well, she might say something indirectly, you know where you have to read it between the lines. Things like Oh, so you heard the Bowman’s daughter is having her second child? But it doesn’t seem to work, so she has stopped.
“You’re impossible, Mom. Just promise you’ll be careful, all right?”
“I’m always careful. I think if your dad and I became more careful, we would have to stop getting out of bed at all in the morni
ng.”
Claire tries to laugh, but is interrupted by another phone call and some sound coming from her computer.
“Gotta go, Mom. Got a ton of meetings. I’ll check in with you later, okay?”
She always says that, but Peggy knows it will be at least two weeks until she hears from her again. As a matter of fact, she has never called as much as she has since The Axeman started his rampage in New Orleans. In her quiet mind, Peggy is thanking him for that while putting the groceries away.
Chapter Sixty-One
November 2005
Robyn is walking up and down the living room, not able to find rest. She is biting her nails, constantly glancing out the window, into the street, towards the condos on the other side, wondering if Suzy has made it home yet.
It’s been two days and the girl hasn’t shown her face. Melissa and Jamie have been coming over every day, asking if Robyn has seen her, but she has honestly told them she hasn’t seen her.
She has told them to go to the police, but they refuse to. Robyn can’t stop worrying about her out there in the big dangerous streets. Robyn has been biking up and down the neighborhood, calling Suzy’s name, asking neighbors if they might have seen her.
Now the darkness has sunk over the street again, and still no sign of Suzy. Robyn feels so afraid and can’t stop watching the news, worrying that her face will show up.
I can’t stand this. I have to get a drink.
Robyn has never been a drinker, but for the first time in her life, she feels like she needs one. She walks to the liquor cabinet that John put in when he still lived there, then pulls out a brown bottle that she doesn’t know what is. But it doesn’t matter. As long as it makes her calm down.
She grabs a glass and fills it, and just as she is about to drink it, gulp it down in one sitting, she hears a noise coming from the kitchen. Robyn stops, the edge of the glass still on her lips, then puts the glass down.
Her heart is throbbing in her chest as she grabs an unopened bottle and lifts it like a weapon and walks to the kitchen. She sneaks closer to the French doors, when another sound startles her. She peeks in and sees the refrigerator is open, someone’s head is inside of it.
She jumps in with a loud scream, ready to swing the bottle at this person, this intruder who is stealing her food. The person is startled by her screams, and starts to scream herself, then falls to the floor, a chicken thigh still in her mouth.
Robyn gasps when she sees her face.
“Suzy?”
Huge relief soon replaces fear as she springs to her. “Suzy, dear Suzy! Oh, my God, how I am glad to see you.”
Suzy looks at her, then blushes, and that is when Robyn sees it. One side of her face is bruised. Her eye is swollen so badly she can’t see out of it.
Robyn kneels in front of her. “Suzy! What happened to you? Who did this? Tell me who did this!”
“Please, don’t make me go back,” she whispers.
Robyn’s eyes widen. She can hardly speak from anger. “They did this to you? Your mom…and that…that Jamie?”
Suzy seems to be thinking about it for a second, then nods. “We got into a fight. I…it was my fault, really. I shouldn’t have said what I said.”
Robyn is holding back her tears. She grabs Suzy’s arm and looks into her only seeing eye. “Oh, my God, Suzy. That can never be your fault, sweetheart. Never. It doesn’t matter what you said, it never gives an adult right to beat you like this. Don’t you ever think this is your fault. Never.”
Robyn helps Suzy get up and sits her down at the breakfast counter. As she touches her back, the girl twitches in pain.
“May I?” Robyn asks, and when the girl nods, she lifts up her shirt.
Robyn gasps and clasps her mouth. Tears spring to her eyes immediately as she stares at the bruises on the girl’s back. She puts the shirt down to cover them, then looks at Suzy’s face again, looks into her one good eye, forcing her tears back.
“I promise you, Suzy. You’ll never have to go back to them again. Do you hear me? It is my promise to you!”
The girl nods and reaches out her arms to hug Robyn. Robyn grabs her carefully to not touch anywhere painful, then holds her in her arms for a long time while she cries.
Chapter Sixty-Two
July 2016
It is driving me insane. To know that someone might get killed tonight, at a quarter past midnight, by my brother, and having no idea who it is or how to warn them. Even worse is knowing that Salter is sick and that Blake will leave him in the middle of the night to go kill someone.
Is Blake taking proper care of him? Has he been to a doctor? Is his fever down yet?
The worries are many and I try not to let them get to me. I have to stay focused; I have to keep my head clear to save my son. I also worry about Joey. He has been gone for almost an hour now, and I think he is in a bad state of mind after what happened to him earlier. I wonder where he is, then shoot him a text, but he doesn’t answer.
I stare at the display for a little while, when suddenly Chloe calls.
“What’s up?” I say, sounding an awful lot like my son.
“I got an IP address.”
I smile, relieved. Finally, some progress. “Really? Can you locate the computer by using the IP address?”
“Well, yes and no. This whole procedure has unfortunately been colored by shows on TV. It is usually not as easy as they make it out to be. In all of these cases, and other similar services, the information retrieved is not about the current user of the IP address, but the owner of the IP address. In other words, the information that you get relates only to the ISP or hosting company that has allocated that IP address to one of its customers. Typically, the information returned will include the name, address, and phone number of the ISP.”
“Talk English. Tell it to me like I am five years old, please,” I say. “What does it mean?”
“In a practical sense, it is never the location of the actual person who is using that IP address.”
“So, what do we do? Can’t we just get it from the ISP you’re talking about?”
“It’s protected by privacy. They’re not allowed to give that type of information.”
“But…but how do the police do it then?”
“They get a court order. They’re the police.”
“So, we can’t use it?”
“Well…” I can hear her tap on the keyboard.
“Please, Chloe. I need this. Break the law for me just once more.”
She goes silent. “All right. For Salter. And you. And Joe.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“It’s highly illegal, so please be careful who you share this info with,” Chloe says. “Here we go…I think I might have something. It seems to be an address in New Orleans so it could be it…I’ll text it to you.”
“You’re the best, Chloe. Thanks!”
“Anything for you. You know that.”
“Another thing before you go.”
“Yes?”
“Could I get you to check on my dad? I haven’t had the time to call and I want to make sure he is doing okay. Jack comes around once a day and walks Snowflake and makes food for my dad, but I worry he is lonely. Maybe chat with him a little and tell him we’re close to getting Blake. That’ll cheer him up. The whole story worries him so.”
“Sure. I’ll stop by later and have a chat with him. Don’t worry.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
July 2016
Joey enters the Carousel and throws a glance behind the bar. He spots her, standing with her back turned to him, and approaches her.
This would be a heck of a lot easier if you’d just remember her name.
“Miss?” he says and sits down at the bar.
She turns and smiles widely when she sees him. “Hey there. Again. Say, you look a little shaken. Can I get you a drink?”
Joey nods. It’s not the reason why he is there, but he realizes he really needs it right now. “A beer, please.”
“Coming right up,” she says with a wink. “I know what you like.”
Joey blushes, feeling embarrassed sitting there again after what…almost happened last time.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” she says, and puts the beer in front of him. Joey grabs it and drinks, almost gulps it down.
“Thirsty much, are we? Let me guess, it’s not going as well as hoped for with that ex-wife of yours?”
He shakes his head. “That’s not exactly it. I mean, she is part of it, of course, but there is more to it than that. A whole lot more.”
Joey grabs his phone and finds a picture of Salter. He shows it to her. “This is our son. He’s been kidnapped by Mary’s brother and we’re here to look for him.”
The bartender looks surprised. “Okay, that is a lot more serious than what I first believed. I thought you two lovebirds were simply quarreling. Let me look at it again. Hm, cute kid, that’s for sure.”
The bartender wipes the counter, then throws the cloth back on her shoulder.
“Do you think you might be able to help me?” Joey asks.
“Sure. How so?”
“Well, I was thinking of going around town showing his picture, asking if anyone might have seen him, but then I thought of you. Bartenders know people, right? Maybe you know how to do this the right way.”
She smiles. “Well, you’re right. We know people, but even better, we also know each other. As a matter of fact, we have this Facebook group for bartenders in the French Quarter, you know where we write about if a customer has acted bad in one place to warn other places to not let him in, or if someone loses his or her job one place, to ask if there might be an opening somewhere else. I could try and post the picture there.”