Kill Her Again

by Robert Gregory Browne

  Where had he come from?

  Had he followed them here?

  Without another word, Red Cap stepped toward her and she fumbled for her Glock, only to remember that the man on the floor had taken it from her when he grabbed her.

  And as Red Cap moved closer, she suddenly realized that there was something different about him. His face was different from the one she’d seen in her visions. The misshapen half was no longer a hideous mess. It was still malformed, yes, but not nearly as bad-as if he’d had some sort of corrective surgery.

  “Not to worry, Chavi. I would not let him hurt you. Not before you give me what is mine.”

  McBride tried to get to her feet, but stumbled back and found herself pressed against the hallway wall, her gaze on the knife in his hand. “What do you want from me?”

  He seemed surprised by the question. “What I always want, my darling. What I always-”

  Anna heard a shout and suddenly Pope flew through the air toward Red Cap, knocking him to the floor. The knife went flying as the two rolled across the carpet, Pope pounding at him with his fists, landing blows to his face and chest.

  Red Cap brought an arm up, blocking the assault, as his other hand dipped into a pocket and brought out the stun gun, jabbing Pope in the side. Electricity snapped and Pope jerked back, spasming violently as Red Cap threw him off and stood, about to bring the stunner down again.

  Then Anna lunged, grabbing his wrist, slamming him against the wall — but he was strong, abnormally strong, and he twisted away from her and flung her aside. He turned and started toward her again as she stumbled back, losing her footing, and hit the ground hard — and just as he was over her, a shot rang out and he screamed, dropping the stun gun, grabbing his shoulder.

  “Freeze!” a voice shouted, and Anna heard Worthington pounding up the stairs.

  Red Cap whirled, still clutching his shoulder, and threw himself toward the darkness of the bathroom as — Worthington fired again, the bullet gouging wood in the doorframe as Red Cap disappeared from sight.

  Then Worthington was at the top of the stairs, weapon and flashlight in hand. Stepping over the body on the floor, he pointed both toward the bathroom doorway.

  “No place to go, asshole. Come out here. Now!”

  But he got no response. No sound coming from in there at all.

  Anna got to her feet and moved to Pope, who was no longer spasming. But his face was pale and he didn’t seem fully coherent.

  “What the fuck?” he groaned.

  “It’s all right,” she said, rubbing his arm. “You’ll be all right in a minute.”

  Worthington took another step toward the bathroom. “Get your ass out here right now, motherfucker, or I swear to Christ I’ll let you bleed to death.”

  He swept the bathroom with the flashlight beam and frowned. Moving carefully toward the doorway, he hesitated at the threshold, then stepped inside.

  “Shit,” Worthington said, his voice reverberating against the bathroom tiles. “I don’t fucking believe it. He did it again. The son of a bitch did it again.”

  3 6

  The bathroom window was hanging open, blood on the sill.

  Anna stared at it, amazed by Red Cap’s agility. His ability to move so decisively in so short a time. And with a bullet in him, no less.

  Her gaze shifted to her reflection in the mirror and she didn’t like what she saw. Her hair was a sweaty and matted mess, there were dark circles under her eyes, and her scar was inflamed. She looked at the tub and wished she could crawl in and soak for a couple hours.

  Hell, a couple years.

  Preferably in ice-cold water.

  She heard pounding on the steps behind her and turned, moving into the hallway. Worthington coming back from outside.

  He was out of breath.

  “I looked up and down the block,” he said. “No sign of him anywhere-although I did find some blood on the sidewalk.”

  “Will someone please wake me up?” Pope said. He was on the floor against the wall, looking as if he could use a long soak himself. “I’m really getting tired of this nightmare.”

  “Aren’t we all,” Anna said.

  Worthington gestured to the dead man near Pope. “Would one of you like to tell me who the hell he is?”

  “The Ghost,” Pope said.

  “The what?”

  “One of Troy’s men. Just like the two you picked up this afternoon.” He sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  “Well, it had better be a goddamned good one, because you’re gonna tell it to the Vegas PD when they get here.”

  “You called them?”

  “No, but after all the noise we made, I can guarantee the neighbors did.”

  And then, as if on cue, a siren wailed in the distance.

  The lead detective was commander of the LVMPD Homicide Division. Anna was surprised that such a high rank was running a crime scene, but maybe they did things differently out here in Vegas.

  A couple of the responders knew Pope on a first-name basis, having worked with him in the past, but this one didn’t seem to know much beyond the headlines.

  They were standing on the sidewalk in front of Pope’s house. The neighbors had gathered, the place quickly turning into the usual circus.

  At the first mention of Troy’s name, the detective nodded to his car, a standard-issue Crown Vic. “Let’s talk in there.”

  The all piled in, Worthington in front, Pope and Anna in back.

  Starting the engine, the detective turned his air conditioner up full blast, then looked at Pope. “Okay, you got my attention. What do you know about Anderson Troy?”

  So Pope told him his story, filling in the details about The Ghost, Sharkey, and Troy and his connections to organized crime. It was a good story, and any law enforcement agent would be thrilled to stumble into it. But this guy didn’t seem all that impressed.

  “Tell me about the assailant,” the detective said. “The guy with the knife.”

  This was when the truth got bent a little. They had decided to blame The Ghost’s death on a squatter who had been hiding upstairs. The truth would only complicate matters and they’d be stuck here all night. Worthington said he didn’t know if the guy was performing a good deed or was simply a wacko, but he’d just killed a man and was behaving erratically, so…

  “You shot him,” the detective said. “And it looks like you hit him.”

  Worthington nodded. “I thought I had him cornered in there, but he got away.”

  “So what did this guy look like?”

  “About six-one, two hundred ten pounds, with short-cropped hair and a baseball cap. Red. It was pretty dark and I could be wrong, but I think he was a gypsy.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He fit the general type and had a tattoo of a wheel on the back of his neck. I’ve seen one similar on some of the Roma drifters I’ve busted.”

  The detective shook his head in disgust. “Fuckin’ gypsies. We get a clan comes through every once in a while, but they usually get lost among all the other scammers and two-bit con artists in town. Looks like this one’s a hero, though.”

  “Looks like.”

  “But one thing I don’t understand,” the detective said, “is what you folks were doing here in the first place.”

  Pope took his turn again. “Like I told you. This is my house.”

  “Yeah, I get that, but it’s been closed up for quite a while. Neighbors say you haven’t been around in over a year. Why the sudden visit?”

  Pope had an answer for that one, too. Not much of one, Anna thought, but it was all they could come up with.

  “I’ve been consulting on a case for Agent McBride here. We came to get some papers I left behind.”

  “This have anything to do with Troy?”

  “Not at all,” Anna said. “This is actually the first I’m hearing about him.”

  The detective nodded, then lowered his head for a moment as if weighing a decision. Then he said,
“What I’m about to tell you can’t leave this car.”

  They all looked at him, curious, and he shifted his gaze to Pope.

  “Your friend Sharkey’s real name was Ed O’Donnell. He was on a deep-cover assignment involving possible departmental collusion with Troy.”

  “Was?” Pope said.

  “Sharkey’s dead. We found him in a Dumpster behind Leroy’s Bail Bonds downtown. His throat was slit.”

  “Jesus,” Pope said, closing his eyes.

  “We’ve got nothing that ties it directly to Troy, but we’re working on it. Only a few people in the department knew about him, and I’m one of them.” He looked at Pope. “And from what you’ve told me, it looks like you could wind up a star witness in all this.”

  Pope opened his eyes now, and Anna could see that this proposition didn’t thrill him.

  “As you might assume,” the detective went on, “this is still a highly sensitive case. So what I gotta know is if you’ve talked to anyone else about it.”

  “Just the two uniforms,” Worthington said. “The first responders. But not in any detail.”

  The detective nodded. “I’ll be talking to them shortly. But when we leave this car, I need the three of you to keep your mouths shut. Just until we can get this whole thing contained.” He looked at Worthington. “And I’d really like to get those two goons you’ve got locked up transferred out here. You think that can be arranged?”

  “Consider it done,” Worthington said.

  The detective turned to Anna. “Does the bureau have any interest in this?”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned. I’ve got my own cases to worry about.”

  “Then I guess all that’s left to talk about is protection.” He looked at Pope. “We need to get you someplace safe.”

  “Forget it,” Pope said.

  “This Ghost guy almost caps you and you don’t think you need a detail? From what I know about Troy, he’s not gonna give up easily.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “As long as there’s a gypsy around, right? Look, I don’t want to be an asshole about this, but it’s in my best interest to make sure you stay safe.”

  “And it’s my right to refuse,” Pope said.

  “I could take you in as a material witness.”

  “Not if you want my cooperation.”

  The detective studied him a moment, then shrugged. “Whatever you say. But if it were me, I’d be asking for my own goddamn private island.”

  “We’ll keep him safe,” Worthington said. “You need anything else from us?”

  “Not at the moment. But like I told you, keep your mouths shut. Until we can get this thing sorted out.”

  He dug a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Pope. “For all our sakes, you be careful out there. You change your mind about that protection, just call the station and ask for Captain Brad Billingsly.”

  3 7

  “ A little house keeping before we get started,” Jake said.

  They were sitting in a corner booth at Crandal’s Coffee Shop, which was just far enough away from the glitz and glitter of the city to afford them a small amount of peace and quiet. The choice had been random, but it was roomy, well-lit, and air-conditioned, and the waitress brought them coffee without asking. Pope figured they all looked like they needed it.

  It was a little past 10:00 p.m. They were exhausted by the events of the night, and Pope wasn’t sure how much longer he could last on just a couple hours’ sleep.

  “I talked to Ronnie before all the excitement,” Jake said. “She told me Evan checked out fine and she was taking him to her mother’s house for the night. They’re both probably in bed by now.”

  “Good,” McBride said.

  “I also spoke to my forensics guy and he had some interesting things to say about our gypsy friend.”

  “Oh? Like what?”

  “He didn’t get much from the shoe you managed to grab. Says it looks handmade and fairly cheap. But it turns out the cigarette butts you spotted are a Slavonian brand.”

  “Where the hell is Slavonia?” Pope asked.

  “Eastern Croatia. It has a pretty good-sized gypsy population.”

  “That would explain the accent,” McBride said.

  “Yeah, but what defies explanation is how our guy got the cigarettes in the first place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The brand is defunct. The manufacturer went out of business over thirty-five years ago.”

  “Must be a mistake,” Pope said.

  Jake shook his head. “The name is printed on the paper. So either this guy’s got a helluva stockpile, or he’s smoking nonexistent cigarettes.”

  Pope thought he’d heard and seen just about everything at this point, but this new wrinkle only managed to deepen the mystery.

  “None of which tells us who we’re dealing with,” Jake continued, “but maybe this will.”

  He took a sealed Baggie from his pocket and held it up. The gypsy’s stun gun was inside.

  Pope shuddered at the sight of it and felt a phantom jolt of pain in his ribs. He could only imagine what McBride was feeling.

  “Soon as we’re done here, I’m taking this baby back to the lab and putting a rush on it. If we don’t get a match on this son of a bitch’s fingerprints, I’ll turn in my badge.”

  “With our luck he doesn’t have fingerprints,” Pope said.

  It was a joke, but none of them laughed.

  Pope shifted his attention to Susan’s notebook, which lay on the table in front of them.

  “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, why don’t we get down to business? See what my darling little ex has to say about all of this.”

  McBride nodded. “My thinking exactly.”

  They first looked at the newspaper clippings. There were at least a half dozen of them, starting with the Salcedo Daily ’s account of Jillian Carpenter’s abduction and death.

  The morning after the kidnapping, she had been found by a jogger in Foster Park, her half-naked body nearly buried by fallen leaves.

  When the leaves were cleared away, it was discovered that the killer had used Jillian’s blood to draw something on the ground:

  The symbol of a wheel.

  The gypsy wheel.

  Anna looked at the clipping. “It says here that Jillian’s left forefinger was severed and positioned inside the wheel to replace one of the missing spokes.”

  Jake’s eyes widened. “That’s pretty fucked up. Why would he do that?”

  “Because he’s fucked up,” Pope said. “Why does he kill little girls? Why does he smoke cigarettes that’re older than God?”

  “Calm down, Cuz. It’s a legitimate question.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “But I feel like I keep having to hammer this point home: There’s no rational explanation for half of this shit. And the sooner we all accept that, the better off we’ll-”

  “Oh, my god, look at this.”

  McBride had wisely been ignoring them and had moved on to another newspaper clipping. This one a stapled, two-page photocopy. She pulled the first page free and put it on the table in front of them.

  It was a murky copy of an already murky tabloid photo. A teenage girl lying on a slab in the morgue, the victim of multiple stab wounds.

  The headline screamed: WHEEL OF DEATH!

  McBride read from the second page:

  “ ‘Manhattan. Seventeen-year-old Mary Havershaw’s lifeless body was part of a macabre crime scene discovered by a janitor in the gymnasium of Columbia High School for Girls. The victim of multiple stab wounds, Havershaw was found lying next to a crudely drawn symbol of what sources describe as a chakra, or wheel, believed to be part of a satanic ritual. The symbol was drawn using Havershaw’s blood.

  “ ‘Police have zeroed in on a group of young girls who have been known to dabble in the occult at Columbia, but no suspects have been named and no arrests made.

  “ ‘Friends of the victim,
however, point to another possibility, claiming that Havershaw had complained of being followed in the days before her death.

  “ ‘ “She was really worried about this guy,” said one friend, who wishes to remain anonymous. “She said he never got close, but he kept showing up all over the place. Outside school, on the subway, at Coney Island. She tried talking to her parents about him, but they just thought she was being dramatic.”

  “ ‘When asked if Havershaw had ever described this man, her friend said, “Not really. Just that he looked like some kind of circus freak.” ’ ”

  McBride lowered the page and stared at them.

  “What’s the date on that thing?” Jake asked.

  “September third, 1971.”

  “This guy’s defying all the stats. Most serial killers usually get their jollies, then retire after a while. What does this put him at? Forty-something years?”

  “Maybe longer than that,” Pope said. His gaze was on another photocopy in the stack, its protruding corner showing a handwritten year in the margin: 1954. He recognized Susan’s handwriting.

  Reaching across the table, he pulled it free, and stared down at a two-paragraph article titled “Police Baffled by Bizarre Ritual Killing.”

  “ ‘Dayton, Ohio,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘Police continue to be baffled by the bizarre stabbing death of thirty-year-old housewife Anita Dallworthy, who was found on her living room floor in what officials have determined to be a ritual killing. Her assailant or assailants used Dallworthy’s blood to create a circular symbol on the carpet. Sources wouldn’t confirm, but it’s believed that one of the victim’s body parts was incorporated into the symbol’s design.

  “ ‘Police are currently looking for what witnesses have described as a severely deformed man of possible foreign descent, who was seen lurking near the Dallworthy home just days before the incident. Their search, however, has so far proven fruitless.’ ”

  Pope looked up at them. “It’s dated January fourteenth, 1954.”

  “This is impossible. It can’t be the same guy.”

  “Can’t it?” Anna said. “Take a look at these.”