What Doesn’t Kill Her

by Max Allan Collins

  Mark was glad he hadn’t taken time for breakfast before he left; right now, acid was burning his throat.

  “Not a mugging,” Grant said.

  “Butchery,” Mark said.

  Every fear Mark had tried to keep at bay roiled up. He prayed that Jordan had followed his advice, and that she had called the others and they were being similarly cautious. Somehow, Levi had stumbled onto something and the killer had discovered as much.

  Lynch trundled up beside him. “Weird shit, huh, the eyeball deal, huh?”

  “His right eye,” Mark said.

  Grant said, “That’s significant?”

  “It’s Biblical,” Mark said, his voice steady, cool. “Matthew 5:29. ‘And if thy right eye causeth thee to stumble, pluck it out, and cast it from thee.’ ”

  Lynch wore a skeptical smirk. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I’ve been right all along—a serial killer has been running loose for years, and the CPD has done jack squat about it.”

  “I would tend to agree,” Grant said. “Is there any sign of this perp taking souvenirs before?”

  “Maybe,” Mark said. But he didn’t go into detail. “In any case, I don’t think we have to worry about stepping on the thing. That it’s gone is a message.”

  Grant asked, “How so?”

  Mark ignored that, asking, “Was his cell on him?”

  “No,” Grant said, shaking his head. “Wallet’s missing, too.”

  “That’s funny,” Mark said.

  Lynch said, “Funny ha-ha, or funny fucked-up?”

  “He tries to make it look like a mugging, a robbery, and then does this crazy eyeball routine.”

  “Maybe he was filling an order from an organ donor.”

  Mark wasn’t sure if that was a dark joke or if Lynch was that dumb.

  “It’s another stabbing,” Mark said to Grant. “That girl’s picture you showed me—gotten anywhere with that?”

  “The married boyfriend is cleared, but she had a lot of boyfriends, and a few johns. You’re right that this has a few surface similarities, but that was a female victim.”

  “The Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run had male and female victims.”

  “You know your history. But I don’t see how that hookin’-on-the-side waitress has anything to do with this poor kid.”

  Unless that waitress’s resemblance to Jordan had been some kind of perverted callout.…

  The young detective stepped out of the crime scene area and removed the booties.

  “Where are you headed?” Grant asked. “We need to talk.”

  “I have a class,” Mark said.

  A gymnastics class.

  He followed Shaker Boulevard, State Highway 87, west. Even as the street changed names, Mark stayed on 87, weaving through traffic to its intersection with I-271, which he took to I-480, the Outer Beltway. He continued westerly, headed for Havoc’s center. There, he planned to confront Carlyle and finally get some answers.

  His tires squealed as he made the turn into Havoc’s parking lot. To Mark’s astonishment, Carlyle, blond hair bright in the sunshine, was strolling toward his car, probably headed for lunch.

  Finally caught a break, he thought.

  When he slammed on the brakes just short of Carlyle’s car, the man turned, gave him a wide-eyed startled look, and ran.

  Mark flew out of his own car, barely jamming the gearshift into park as he exited. “Cleveland PD, halt!”

  That worked about as well as it usually did.

  Flippin’ criminals, did they always have to run?

  Carlyle took off around the north side of the structure, between it and the credit union.

  Mark took pursuit. This guy had less of a head start than Perry the Perv had, but Carlyle was in way better shape. Another parking lot waited on the backside of the building, and Mark was barely keeping up as Carlyle turned back south, going behind Havoc’s business and heading for the woods at the far south end of the parking lot.

  If the gymnastics coach made it into there, Mark would have a hard time keeping up, and might lose the guy in the shadowy landscape.

  Kicking it up a notch, Mark sprinted after his prey. Slowly, the gap narrowed. Just as the first runner’s feet left the pavement and hit a patch of grass at the edge of the forest, Mark leapt.

  He caught Carlyle by the waist and the two men rolled to the ground. Even a place kicker knows how to tackle, he thought. As he struggled to his feet, Mark knew he had ruined another suit.

  Carlyle got to one knee, but Mark was ready, pistol out.

  “Stay down,” Mark said.

  Carlyle slipped back onto his stomach and, without being asked, spread-eagled.

  “You’re under arrest,” Mark said.

  “Arrest? What the fuck for?”

  Cuffing the man’s hands behind him, Mark said, “Resisting, obstruction of a police officer in the performance of his—”

  “You’re not workin’ for my ex-wife?” Carlyle asked, twisting his head around, watching as Mark frisked him.

  “No, Carlyle. I’m not private. Your tax dollars pay my freight.”

  He helped the suspect up.

  Carlyle’s eyes were wide and he was spitting as he talked. “I’m under arrest because I ran? How the hell was I supposed to know you were a cop? You didn’t have a police car—how the fuck was I supposed to know you weren’t sent by that bitch to serve me papers or beat the crap out of me, or—”

  “I said ‘Cleveland PD.’ ”

  “That doesn’t make you Cleveland PD.”

  “This does,” Mark said, and read him his Miranda rights.

  As Mark marched the suspect back around the building, Carlyle asked, “What’s this really about? Never mind me obstructing shit, what’s the real charge?”

  “You’re gonna love it, Coach Carlyle,” Mark said, and couldn’t hold back the grin. “First-degree murder.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Though she had buzzed Mark into the building just moments before, Jordan remained jumpy as she peered through the peephole, waiting to see him fill her vision. And when he had, she flung open the door, ready to rip him a new one. Hadn’t he essentially hung up on her, after hitting her with Levi’s murder? Without providing any goddamn details! What the fuck?

  Then, when she saw him with his disheveled hair, grass-stained suit, and torn suit coat and pants, she blurted, “Jesus, are you all right?”

  “Hard day at the office,” he said, and managed a small smile as he brushed by her into the apartment.

  Jordan—in Indians T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, her hair trailing down her back—had in her right hand the switchblade she had commandeered from that mugger out back.

  “Where did you get that?” he said, eyeing the knife, frowning back at her.

  “Didn’t you know?” She clicked it shut, slipped it into her jeans pocket. “They issue these to all mental patients upon release.”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “Fine. I don’t want to know. Truthfully, I’m glad you have something to defend yourself with.”

  “I don’t need this to defend myself. What the hell happened to Levi? He’s dead? He’s really dead?”

  He nodded solemnly, then gestured to the black-topped table. “Let’s sit.”

  They did, and he filled her in on what he’d learned and seen. His delivery was understated, but he did not avoid the unpleasant details.

  “Butchered,” she said quietly. “Like my family.”

  “The use of a knife may indicate the same perpetrator, yes.”

  “You think? Mark, he knows we’re looking for him. But he’s found us, before we found him! How does he know?”

  “That may come out in questioning.”

  She frowned at him. “What?”

  He smiled and it was a self-satisfied smile of a sort she’d never seen from him. “I think I got him.”

  “What?”

  “I got him, Jordan.” He raised a fist chest high and shook it in
a victory gesture. “This nightmare ends now. I only wish it could have ended sooner, before what happened to Levi, but… this is what you’ve been waiting for. It’s finally here.”

  But it wasn’t what she’d been waiting for, was it? She’d wanted to find the intruder before Mark, before the police, because he had to die. This monster had to die, and at her hands. That was the only way. The only way.

  Proud of himself, Mark was saying, “I made an arrest before coming over here—that’s why I’m so well-groomed.” He gestured to his torn, soiled clothing. “I had to tackle his behind.”

  “Whose ‘behind,’ goddamnit?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Stuart Carlyle.”

  “One of Havoc’s coaches.”

  He nodded. “He’s in custody now. That was whose picture I ran past you.”

  “But I couldn’t identify him.”

  “No, but you said it might be the guy.” Mark frowned. “By the way, you may want to forget I showed you that picture, when you’re brought in to pick him out of a lineup.”

  “Bending the rules, Detective?”

  “For you, I’d throw them all out the window.”

  All of them? Would you stand there and watch me kill the man, just as savagely as he killed my family? Because if you want to woo me, Mark Pryor, that’s what it’s going to take.

  Her eyebrows went up. “What happens if it isn’t him?”

  His eyebrows furrowed. “Well…”

  “If it’s not him, when I get a better look at him, what then? I’ll tell you ‘what then’—it means the real killer’s still out there.”

  “Yes,” he said, though he was shaking his head no. “But the evidence indicates it is Carlyle. My work led to Havoc, and your team made suspects out of his staff. It’s a joint effort we can all be proud of. We can all take credit.”

  “Credit! Who gives a fuck about credit?” She leaned forward. “We need to talk to the others on the team. I called them like you asked, but didn’t tell them about Levi. Maybe we should call a meeting, and—”

  Halfway through that, he had started to pat the air with his palms. “I’m ahead of you. I’ve already called David, Phillip, and Kay, and broken it to them about Levi. I’ve sent uniformed officers to watch Kay and David, as well.”

  “What about Phillip?”

  “He declined police protection.”

  “Well, if you already have the killer in custody,” she said openly sarcastic, “why bother with any of them?”

  “Until you make your ID and all the evidence is in,” Mark said, “we have to operate as if the killer were still at large. I could be wrong about Carlyle. You’re right about that.”

  “I’m glad you grasp that. Because I’m not sure about that photo.”

  Or did she not want to be sure?

  Mark shrugged. “As for Phillip, he’s a survivor of a crime apparently unrelated to the family murders. Says since he didn’t join the team until just recently, the killer probably doesn’t even know he exists. He says he’ll be ‘extra-vigilant.’ ”

  “That sounds like him,” she said. “But you should talk him out of turning down protection. If there’s any chance the killer is still out there, he needs that the same as the rest of us.”

  Mark was nodding. “I agree. If this killer has been watching you… and there’s every indication that this is the case… then he knows all about your support group spin-off team. Might have intended targeting all of you.”

  “You’ll talk to Phillip?”

  “I will. You know, from what he said on the phone, he must be the last person alive to speak to Levi.”

  “Really? Why do you say that?”

  “Levi was on his way over to Phillip’s to work on the case. Apparently Levi had some kind of breakthrough. But he never showed. Then Phillip fell asleep waiting for him, didn’t wake till morning, and… not surprisingly… got no answer when he tried to call.” Mark shook his head. “Poor guy sounded shattered, hearing the news.”

  “I wouldn’t have been surprised,” Jordan said dryly, “if Levi called and said he was coming over, and then didn’t show.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We all knew that piece-of-shit car of his was a problem. Anyway, Phillip’s going to be key from here on. He’s the one with the computer skills.”

  Mark shook his head. “That shouldn’t be necessary now. Even if I’m wrong about Carlyle—and I doubt I am—the one good thing that comes from Levi’s murder is that a real police investigation is going to be mounted. Finally what I’ve been doing… what we’ve all been doing… will be recognized as valid.”

  She asked, “How did the killer—whether he’s this Carlyle person or not—even know about our support-group team?”

  He touched her hand and she drew it back quickly, but he reached for it, trying again, and this time she let him. He squeezed gently.

  “Jordan,” he said, “I’m afraid this predator may have been watching you since your release.”

  She frowned. “Why do you think that?”

  He took a few moments, selecting his words. “There was a waitress killed in this neighborhood a few days after you got out of St. Dimpna’s. She had a vague resemblance to you.”

  “God. How… how was she killed?”

  “With a knife. Multiple stab wounds.”

  “You mean she was butchered, too?”

  He nodded. “We can’t be sure there’s a connection. Sergeant Grant has a few suspects from the young woman’s life—a married man, and she had her share of dates, some of them paying for the privilege.”

  “A prostitute?”

  “Not hardcore, apparently. More casual than that, but yes. That she was found in this part of town, and that she had dark hair and your general build… her death may have been a message to you.”

  She winced in thought. “What, that he was still out here?”

  “Yes. A kind of terrible, sick… ‘welcome home.’ ”

  Her eyes flashed and her nostrils flared. “How long have you known this?”

  He put up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I didn’t keep anything back from you. I knew about her death from Sergeant Grant, when he asked me to talk to you for him. But at the time, neither of us saw any connection. Now that Levi’s been killed, in much the same way… well. It’s still just a theory.”

  She shook her head. “What if you’re wrong, Mark, and he’s still out there? Watching us. Murdering us.”

  “Jordan.…”

  And what if Mark was right, and she would never get to bring the intruder to justice, to her very special brand of justice?

  She clenched her fists and shook them at the ceiling and howled in rage and pain. Then she began to sob, and she couldn’t stop. She rose from the table and hugged herself and walked in weaving circles, weeping convulsively, for Levi, for her friends, for herself, and when Mark came to her and tried to put an arm around her, she pushed him away, not viciously, not on his ass this time, but away. Yet when he tried again, she did let him hold her, and she hugged him hard and cried into his chest, the tears bleeding out of her as if the blade that had punctured Levi had penetrated the wall that kept her emotions in.

  He spoke soothing words, words she couldn’t make out but their kind tone helped, as did the gentle pat of his hand on her back, and slowly control returned, sobbing ebbed, tears abated. He smelled good. Some kind of cologne, and it was warm in his arms, and she didn’t mind being held, not at all, even if he was a man.

  He brushed tears from her cheek and she backed away slightly, still in his embrace, and looked into those blue eyes, which were moist themselves, though he hadn’t shed tears.

  “Don’t kiss me,” she said.

  “I won’t.”

  “Don’t you dare kiss me. It’ll ruin it.”

  “I won’t.”

  She kissed him.

  Brief, sweet, moist with her tears, but a kiss.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” she said.

  “I won’t.”


  “That was just ‘thank you.’ ”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “This isn’t the time.”

  “I know.”

  And she kissed him again, only not so brief, and the warmth was more than thanks on her part and the urgency of how he returned her kiss spoke passion not pity. He really had been doing all of this because he loved her. That was so obvious, and she had known it. But now she felt it.

  Still in his embrace, she said, “Has to stop there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s go sit.”

  “All right.”

  They walked to the table, awkwardly skirting the mattress on the floor, a mattress that was a third presence in the room, silent but yelling at them. They pretended not to hear.

  At the table, seated, they held hands, loosely. He looked vaguely embarrassed. He glanced back at the mattress, and she shook her head.

  “Get that out of your mind,” she said.

  “Get what out of—”

  “No.”

  He swallowed. Nodded.

  “Maybe when this is over,” she said, “who knows? Maybe after he’s been taken care of… I’ll feel clean again.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I know! But he was… inside me. Understand? He is a sickness and he… was in me. That’s hard to live with. The idea of having any kind of… normal relationship, after that.…”

  He was frowning. “Don’t give him that power.”

  “What?”

  “Jordan, he controlled you for a few minutes, a few terrible minutes. Don’t give him any more than that. He doesn’t deserve it.”

  She drew her hand away.

  “Jordan…”

  She raised a traffic-cop palm. “No. I’m not mad. I’m… I’m just coming to a kind of… realization. Having a… is the word epiphany?”

  He wasn’t following her. “Is it?”

  Now she clutched his hand and squeezed it so tight, his eyes popped a little.

  “Mark, you’re right, you are so goddamn fucking right. He controlled me that night, but I let him control me for the next ten years. Well, that fucking ends now.”

  His smile was ridiculously boyish. “Jordan, I guess you know how I feel. You know I love you. That I have since—”

  “Since high school. Will you stop? I’m not that innocent little girl anymore.”