by Wayne Batson
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I walked into the Motel 6 lobby at quarter past nine, and I was thinking that I ought to switch hotels soon. I decided to give it the night. Mr. Granderson was at his usual post behind the desk. He looked up, saw me, and backed up a step.
“Oh, Mr. Spector, uhm, or is it Willoughby?”
I definitely needed to switch hotels. “What’s the problem?”
He squinted like he was bracing for a punch. “The-there’s no problem,” he muttered. “It’s just that you have messages. Two of them.” He handed me two slips of paper. I thanked him and walked away. The first message was from Doctor Shepherd at the hospital. The second was from the FBI agent, Deanna Rezvani. Both were marked: Urgent.
Chapter 11
I passed the business center, half expecting to see the old man ignoring his granddaughter again, but I found it empty. Maybe he finally figured out that little girls like to go outside and play.
My room felt empty too—thankfully—not even a trace of Shade-vibe, so I put my case on the bed and picked up the phone. Dr. Shepherd first. Got voice mail. Agent Rezvani next. Voice mail again. So much for urgent.
I took a shower, making the water so hot it stung. Steam enveloped me. I let my head rest on the shower wall. The resetting began. I felt my flesh tighten. Everything about me began to feel sturdier and stronger.
But I was still angry. I’d been at it two days now, and while some of the evidence I’d turned up was promising—especially the sailboat dealer—I still hadn’t rescued anyone. Those women in the pictures were still out there, kenneled up like beasts. I pounded the wall with a taut fist. Inexcusable, unfathomable, egregious—evil.
A flash of images—the blade, the creepy smile, the kennels. My stomach lurched, and I almost lost it. Those women…precious, precious lives being degraded like that and snuffed out. Beautiful children with hopes and dreams—each life of inestimable value—suddenly gone. I thought of the killer. I pounded the wall, caving a square of fiberglass inward.
“Ignorant, bloodthirsty, fool!” the words blasted from my lungs. I came that close, but I caught myself before it was too late. There’d be a time for unleashing all of the pent up indignation, the righteous anger, the collective fury of retribution—the rage. But for now, I needed to think clearly. It started and ended with the photos. What was I missing?
The FBI files revealed that the original Smiling Jack photos had been released over a span of four years. In the earliest photos, there were always shots of the victims to come, threats that he would continue to kill. The second batch of photos began to appear four years after the last photo of the first series. And, it had been four years since the last photo of the last series before the photos I’d discovered on the camera. What was it about four years?
The photos I’d obtained on the camera continued the pattern. And now, according to Agent Rezvani, the shots were all over the web. Jack was making a new power play. He’d murdered the woman with red hair, and rubbed it in our faces. But there were young women still alive. Five, if the number of doghouses meant anything.
Until more photos surfaced, I couldn’t know for certain. But, I needed to operate under the assumption that every day I delayed, was another day of hell for women who were still alive. I wondered about that.
What is their existence like? Being treated like animals, degraded, and likely abused—I dared not imagine the potential variety of horrors. And yet, in the photos, the women wore that same ghastly, contented smile. Drugged? But what sort of drug would keep someone grinning while her life’s blood drained away? That would be another question for Dr. Shepherd.
The steaming water poured down either side of my neck. For a moment, I imagined it was my own blood draining from a gaping throat wound. I shook the thought from my head and pounded my fist once more. Then I stood still. The moment I’d struck the wall, I thought I’d heard something. It wasn’t the fiberglass cracking. It was a kind of dull thump. I thought maybe it was the shower pipes behind the wall. I turned off the water for a moment to listen. I didn’t hear anything. I put the water on again and heard nothing more.
The heat and the steam soothed my muscles and helped me think. The resetting was complete. And yet, I lingered in the hot water a little while longer. Perhaps the greatest nagging mystery was how women such as those in the photos, attractive women by this society’s standards, could be abducted without anyone reporting them missing? Maybe foreign slave trade or prostitution, maybe the bowels of the pornographic industry could provide such victims. The FBI had looked into those possibilities, hadn’t they? Or were they handcuffed by international law? But it had to be something like that. You don’t just give up on a loved one. I told myself that, and I almost believed it. But the FBI had given up. Maybe some of the victim’s had family who had given up too. But not one family member had ever come forward to identify a victim. I shook my head. That just didn’t seem possible.
And why the display? Was Smiling Jack simply saying, “See what I can do?” Was he flaunting his god-complex and daring the world to catch him? Or was there something more?
It happened again. I shut the water off. This time I was certain I’d heard something. Not a thump, more like a melodic trill. The room phone.
I crashed out of the shower stall, whip-cracked a towel around my waist, careened around the bed, and snagged the phone mid ring.
“John Spector.”
“Mr. Spector, this is Doc Shepherd from PCBH. I have some information about the surgical implement you showed me.”
Doc Shepherd, I liked the way he said that. Like the Old West, Doc Holliday. “That’s very good news,” I said. “What have you discovered?”
“I think it best if we talk in person. Could you meet me again at the hospital?”
“Name the time.”
“I’ve got procedures all morning. How about 2:30?”
“I’ll be there. Just make sure—” Something was wrong. The room had gone cold, and it wasn’t just air on my wet skin.
I heard the worry in the surgeon’s voice. “Mr. Spector?”
“I’ll have to call you ba—” The wire dropped past my face, bit into my neck, and jerked taut. I took a deep breath as I dropped the phone. I tried to wedge my arm beneath the attacker’s wrist, tried to grab his hand, but he was beastly strong. I couldn’t breathe.
I could last longer than most, but without air, my muscles would soon burn with lactic acid. I’d lose strength. I’d lose vision. This mission would come to an end, and those women would never leave those horrid kennels alive.
It came. All the rage, barely controlled before, erupted within me. Even after the recent resetting and the diminished ability that came with it, the rage infused me with a surge of ferocity and strength. I threw my arms back, leaped, and used the bed to explode backward into the attacker. The killer had been using his considerable might to constrict and pull back, expecting all my effort, all my fight to be clawing and resisting the wire. So when I launched backward, my force joined his force. We became a two man missile and crashed into the entertainment center. Wood cracked, the television imploded, and glass showered us as we fell.
All my weight came down on the killer. He groaned, and the wire went slack. I slipped out from under it and rolled off. I tumbled to the window side of the room and turned. I expected to see the assailant writhing in agony. His head and neck had taken the initial impact, and I’d fallen upon him with rib-cracking force. I thought it was over. But I was wrong.
The man had gotten to his feet just as I had. He shook his head, blinked his vision to focus, and then cracked his neck to either shoulder as if to say, Is that all you got?
I could see the blood glistening in his dark hair, matting the back of his head. And something about his fighting stance was off. His right leg, flexed behind him, was a bit akimbo. It was like a marionette’s leg, in the right place but looking not quite alive.
He reached backward and his hand returned with a slender blade
that ended in a wicked sharp point. It looked like a boning knife. He flexed, looking ready to spring. I couldn’t believe it. This man should be unconscious. Then, I saw his eyes. And I understood.
Under dark, unruly brows—already standing out on his sweating mad face—the man’s big brown eyes changed. His sockets grew huge and, just for a moment, I saw twin black holes in his fierce stare. Whirling, sucking darkness, empty but for a tiny orb of fire in each eye. It was then that I knew the man had been taken.
And I also knew, I was in serious trouble. The resetting had left me vulnerable, weaker and slower than I could normally be. I needed my silver case. Keeping the killer in focus, I searched around the room for my case, saw it on the other side of the bed, between the bed and the wall. I could dive across the bed for it, but he’d be on me with that blade before I could grab the suitcase handle.
I’d have to take him hand-to-hand.
I lunged, leaped and planted both my feet into his chest. He crashed into the wall behind him, and I fell to the floor. I rolled backward to a crouch, and he rebounded and came at me with the knife. I slammed an inside-out forearm into the wrist of the knife hand to keep the blade at bay. Then I rotated my waist and flexed my upper back and rear shoulder muscle to drive my elbow into his jaw. I heard the crack of bone and a shriek. Then, I felt the blade.
The knife plunged into my gut, sliding with little friction through the stomach muscle. I felt the pain and shock radiating from the new wound. I elbowed him again, fell backward over the bed, and stumbled to my feet.
He stood there, blood dripping out of the corner of a ghastly, misshapen grin. He still held the knife, and blood glistened on the blade. My blood.
I wasn’t too worried about the stomach wound. The recent resetting would slow the healing process, but it would heal. That is, it would heal if I didn’t let the assassin hurt me further. And that was a pretty big “if.” The tearing of the stomach muscle had weakened my core.
The killer moved laterally to his right, giving me limited options. I countered by moving away from the bed, crunching TV glass as I went. He moved the knife side-to-side hypnotically like a pendulum. I watched it.
There were three sharp bangs at the door. A voice. “Mr. Spector! What’s going on in there?” It was the manager, Mr. Granderson. “I’ve gotten three calls about the noise. Mr. Spector?”
The killer was distracted for just a second. It was enough. I swooped in and, with both hands, grabbed the man by the neck, and flung him headlong into the wall by the window. Inverted, he slammed into the large duck painting, and then slid down the wall to rest in a heap on the floor.
“MR. SPECTOR, I demand that you open this door!”
I heard fumbling at the lock, a key card swipe. I vaulted to the door, dead bolted and chained it. “Uh, I’m sorry about all the noise, Mr. Granderson!” I ground my teeth, fighting against the burn radiating from my stomach. “There won’t be any more…noise…tonight. I promise.”
“Wha-what are you doing in there? It sounds like World War III!”
“Would you believe aerobics?” I asked, suddenly feeling like Maxwell Smart.
“Aerobics? No, I wouldn’t believe that. I heard glass breaking.”
“Well, it was kind of like combat training,” I said. Technically, it was true. “Like Tai-Bo, just…uh, more so. And things got out of hand.” Technically, that was true also. “I’ll pay for damages.”
“I expect you’ll be leaving this motel for good in the morning, as well?”
“Yes, yes, you won’t have to worry about me any longer.” I turned a few moments too late.
A translucent form—long, sinewy muscles, claws, and gnarled wings—was emerging from the killer’s body.
I leaped for my silver case, knowing I’d miss the chance to blast it. The Shade gave me a black glare and then surged through the window into the night. I’d never catch him. And I needed to let my gut finish healing.
“I’ll expect full payment, Spector,” the manager said, his voice trailing off. “Just tell me you didn’t break the TV.”
I looked at the TV. Shattered glass, twisted and cracked frame. Oops.
Then, I heard a groan. I went to the killer. He was a mess of blood and broken bones, his head angled awkwardly to the wall. But…he was still breathing.
I eased his head to the ground. His breathing was shallow and coarse with blood. He was dying. I couldn’t prevent that, but I could delay it. I hurriedly popped the clasps on my case, slid an internal latch, and lifted out one compartment. I found a vial full of bluish fluid, removed the cap, and replaced it with a pressurized flange seal. Then, I jammed the seal against the man’s neck and watched the blue fluid seep into his flesh.
He groaned and sucked in a harsh breath. His eyes fluttered and became a little more focused. I had a hundred questions, but I couldn’t ask them all. There just weren’t enough heartbeats left, and I didn’t want to let him die without giving him The Offer.
“Who sent you?” I demanded.
He made a kind of guttural noise and moved his ruined jaw, wincing repeatedly. Still, he kept smiling that ghoulish grin, and blood trickled over his lips and down his cleft chin. Cleft chin. I looked at him, and a thrill swept through me. Smiling Jack.
With the damage to his jaw and skull, it was impossible to know for sure. And I was running out of time to find out.
“Where are the women you took? Where are they?”
He mumbled something, making more of those garbled sounds.
“Don’t you understand?” I growled. “You are moments from death. Tell me where they are!”
“I…don’t know,” he muttered at last. “Women…?”
“The women you took, the doghouse…the pictures…” I stopped that line of questioning. I could see in his eyes. He didn’t know. This wasn’t Smiling Jack. The giant blinking question mark in my mind…if not Smiling Jack, then who sent the assassin? The answer came immediately, but I couldn’t waste the precious few seconds remaining. The man was dying, and I needed to make The Offer.
“Look at me!” I commanded, my voice dropping several octaves.
The killer looked up, his focus crystallizing.
“You have suffered,” I said. “Your life is littered with deep wounds and your soul is marked. But you made choices all along the way, and you will stand before the Throne and face judgment. But there is one choice remaining for you. This is your final offer.” I knelt close to him and whispered The Offer.
He coughed out a laugh, and more blood dribbled over his lips. He cursed me and spat. Then, he died.
I looked at the dead man and sighed. It is these times that I feel as if the earth’s gravity has increased tenfold. The man had made his choice—the wrong one—and departed. But, in spite of the fact that he had tried to kill me, I had been the one to send him on his way. He was not my mission, but perished at my hands anyway. I stood up and shook my head.
A quiet, metallic voice distracted me from the corpse. “If you wish to make a call, please hang up and…”
The phone still lay on the carpet and was trying to persuade me to please hang up or dial the number again. I hung up.
I wondered what Doc Shepherd had to tell me. I’d see him at 2:30 the next day. Before that, however, I figured to go visit G at Spinnaker Sales, see if he knew how coincidental it was for me to be attacked by a professional hitter right after my first visit with him.
Special Agent Rezvani owed me a call as well. She might even want to meet again. But all of that would have to wait for tomorrow.
I had a lot to do in the meantime. I had a room to clean and a body to get rid of.
Chapter 12
“What…what time is it?” Lucinda asked dreamily.
Jack knelt at the arched opening of her kennel home and shone a penlight against the inner wall. “It’s very late,” he said.
“Why are you waking me up?” she asked, no anger in her voice…just half-awake curiosity. “You’ve always said how impor
tant our sleep is.”
“Oh, it is, Lucinda, very important.” He took her hand and led her out of the house. “But for some special occasions, we may go without.”
“Special?” she echoed.
“Shhh, yes, but quietly, dear Lucinda. Quietly. You’ll wake your sisters, and that would spoil the evening. Understood?”
Lucinda nodded solemnly. With her sleep frizzed blonde hair and gossamer nightgown, she looked even more like a faerie. “I’ll be good,” she whispered.
“I knew you would,” Jack replied. With deft touch, he unlocked her neck collar and the shackles on her wrists and ankles. He placed the chrome chains next to Lucinda’s house, making barely a tinkle of sound.
Lucinda shivered a little, and Jack put his arm around her and led her into the hall. “Now then, Lucinda,” he said as they walked, “I want to ask you something. You’ve spoken often of Molly these past weeks. Why do you think that is?”
“I miss her,” Lucinda replied. “She is my favorite sister. I think about her every day.”
“I thought so,” he said. He paused by a door. “And who could blame you? Molly was a very special young lady.”
“Is.”
“What?” Jack asked.
“You said Molly was a special young lady. You meant is, right?”
“Of course,” Jack replied. He forced a broad smile. “You are so very perceptive, Lucinda. Here, go into the powder room, brush your hair, and make yourself up like I’ve shown you. I’ve laid out some new clothing for you.”
“New clothes?” Lucinda’s eyes danced. “What for?”
“You’re going on a trip, my dear.”
“A trip?” she asked. “But I’ve never been on a trip. Where will I go?”
Jack flipped on the powder room light and directed Lucinda inside. Then he answered her at last. “You are going to see Molly.”
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