THE FOURTH BULLET: A Novel of Suspense

by Patrick Dakin

  Before she has finished speaking, Jake’s eyes have fallen closed.

  Tristan passes the day between visits with Jake by taking walks and studying one of several text books she has brought along with her. If not for the delay caused by her father’s tragedy she would graduate this semester with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Business Economics from UCLA. There is now little hope that she will graduate with the rest of her class but she takes advantage of the short periods she is able to concentrate on her studies just the same.

  Lunch consisted of a simple tossed salad in the hospital cafeteria, dinner a cheeseburger at a nearby McDonald’s.

  At seven o’clock she is allowed another brief visit with Jake. He is sleepy but alert enough to carry on a brief conversation. Tristan avoids any mention of Tank, and Jake does not bring the subject up again.

  After an emotional farewell, Tristan leaves the hospital and takes a lighted path to the hospital’s public parking lot where her three year old Toyota awaits her. She reaches into her purse for her keys, unlocks the driver’s side door, and slips behind the wheel with thoughts of her father’s progress filling her mind. She is buoyed by the fact that, contrary to Dr. Bolger’s initial cautionary, Jake seems to be making a startling recovery after such a dangerous and difficult operation, but at the same time she’s extremely anxious about his prospects for the future. What lies ahead for him with a bullet lodged precariously in his brain? Will he ever have anything close to reasonable quality of life? These thoughts plague her mind constantly on the drive home.

  At their North Hollywood residence, Tristan parks the Toyoto in the garage next to Jake’s Taurus and enters the house through the back door leading in from the garage. She spends a few minutes with Crocket, her Spaniel Poodle cross, whom she has sadly neglected since their lives have fallen into such disarray. Then she puts water on the stove for a cup of tea and, while waiting for it to boil, idly thumbs through the mail deposited through the slot in the front door. Most of the mail consists of household bills, advertising flyers, and the like.

  One envelope stands out among the others. It is larger than the rest, addressed simply to Tristan. No stamp or return address. She opens it, frowning curiously, while walking into the living room where she sits in Jake’s favorite recliner in front of the t.v.

  Immediately, she knows this is no ordinary note from a concerned neighbor. The writing is in a man’s hand, sprawling and apparently hastily written. My dearest Tristan, it reads. I do hope you are finding enjoyment in your solitary evenings. Parents can be such annoying people - don’t you agree? We are really much better off without them. But, of course, because of a minor miscalculation on my part, your father is, at least to some degree, still with us. I wanted you to know that I intend to rectify that little error in due course. Oh, don’t worry, my sweet. All in good time. For now, I believe, it behooves me to take some respite from the busy world I have created for myself. A little holiday away from the hustle and bustle of the big city. A week in the country, perhaps. Maybe a month. Or a year. Who knows? At some juncture, however, I pledge to you that I shall return to finish the work I have left undone. Incidentally, I enjoyed seeing your picture in the newspaper. You are undeniably a most attractive young lady. The kind I do so enjoy spending a little time with on occasion. In fact, now that I think of it, I will see to it that I do that very thing. I’m sure fate has something utterly delicious in mind for you and I, dear Tristan. Sleep well, my love.

  From the kitchen comes the high-pitched scream of a boiling kettle - apt accompaniment to the cold shiver running the length of Tristan’s spine.

  5

  Bobby Schultz sits on a barstool at Abe’s, a popular hangout for cops, discussing recent developments in the case with a couple of detectives from Robbery Division, when the pager on his hip vibrates. He downs his scotch, slams the glass down on the bar top. The message is from Tristan - call immediately it says. If it was anybody else he might choose to ignore it, but a message from Tristan demands action. He slides off the barstool, mumbles so long to his buddies, and walks out to his car, dialing Jake’s number on his cell phone on the way.

  “Tristan, it’s Bobby,” he says when she answers.

  “Bobby, can you come over right away? Please.”

  There is an unmistakable tone of fear in her voice. “What is it, honey? What’s wrong?”

  There’s a hesitation and Schultz hears her swallow nervously. “The killer - he left a note for me at home. He’s threatening to---”

  “Listen to me, Tristan,” Schultz says, “lock all the doors in the house and stay put.”

  “Okay,” she answers weakly.

  “I’ll be there in less than ten minutes. Okay?”

  “Hurry, Bobby.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Schultz makes record time getting to Jake’s house, a low slung rancher on a quiet street in North Hollywood. The place is lit up like a cruise ship on the fourth of July. Every light in the place must be on.

  After Tristan admits him, Schultz holds her in an embrace for a long moment, letting her release the emotions she’s been trying hard to hold in.

  "Let's have a look at the note," he says.

  "It's on the table. I didn't want to touch it again in case there are finger prints."

  "Good," Schultz says, all the while thinking this guy isn't going to be leaving any prints. He reads the note and places it in a baggie that he stuffs inside his jacket.

  “How did this creep find out where I live?” Tristan says through her tears.

  Schultz doesn’t bother with an explanation of just how easy that would be. “Don’t worry, honey, everything’s going to be okay. You’re safe. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you, I promise.”

  “You’re going to find him, aren’t you, Bobby? You’ll get this guy?”

  “You’re damn right we will.”

  “But how? It’s like he can get away with whatever he wants.”

  “We got lucky yesterday. We found the disguise he was wearing and the Uzi he used on Tank and your dad. These can help us. If we can run down where he acquired these things, there’s a chance we can find out who he is. It might be the break we’ve been waiting for.”

  “I don’t know, Bobby. It just seems so hopeless.”

  “It’s not hopeless, honey. We’ll get him.”

  “What will I do until he’s caught?”

  “First up, you’re coming home with me tonight. After that we’ll arrange around the clock protection for you. No way is this son-of-a-bitch ever going to touch you. Ever. You got that?”

  Whatever it is she sees in Bobby Schultz’s eyes, it convinces her she’s safe. “Yeah,” she says, “I’ve got it. But what about Crocket? I can’t leave him.”

  “Throw some things together. We’ll bring Crocket with us. Just don’t let my landlady see him. There’s a no pet rule in that dump I live in. Now, let’s get outa here.”

  Later, when they’re sitting together in Schultz’s small condo in Glendale, Tristan says, “Bobby, tell me about how my dad ended up with a steel plate in his skull.”

  Schultz flops back in the deep cushions of his aging sofa, summoning up memories from almost two decades earlier. “He never told you about it?”

  “Not a word.”

  “I really don’t know why he’s so reluctant to talk about it. He told me it was from a biking accident when he was nineteen or twenty. He took a bad spill off a friend’s Harley that nearly killed him. I guess it just embarrassed him that he was a little on the wild side as a young guy. Anyway, I learned about it the first year we were partnered up, when we flew to San Francisco on a case. We were approaching the gates at the airport and he warned me the alarm would go off because of this plate in his skull. Told me about how he always had to carry this notarized declaration whenever he flew anywhere so he could board without too much hassle. Of course, I asked him how it happened and he did tell me, but it was like he would rather not have. I always thought it was a
little strange. But your dad is not the kind of guy you can push. If he doesn’t want to talk about something, that pretty well ends it.”

  “It’s funny how things work out,” Tristan says. “How that accident as a young man ended up saving his life twenty-five years later.”

  “Yeah,” Schultz says thoughtfully. “Life’s funny like that.”

  * *

  Marius Dupree’s departure from Los Angeles is an unhurried event. Arrangements are calmly made for each of the three locations that serve as his residence for a temporary absence. Each location is inhabited - as far as neighbors and landlords are concerned - by different people. In one, Dupree is an elderly cleric; in another, a middle-aged traveling salesman; and in still another, a well-to-do retiree. Each of the locations is stocked with all the necessities of life, as though it were his only place of residence. The magic transformations from one identity to the other take place in his van, the back of which is equipped with more sophisticated makeup materials and components than would normally be found on a movie set.

  His identities have been carefully crafted. His lengthy and frequent absences draw no notice.

  Because of a very sizeable inheritance from his father on his twenty-first birthday, money is not an issue so he can afford to maintain all three residences during his sojourn. The duration of his planned departure is undecided at this point. But the fact is, Los Angeles is a veritable potpourri of opportunity for him and leaving it, even for a short duration, will be difficult. He envisions a time in the not too distant future when he will return to his beloved adopted city.

  * *

  Jake Foley exists in a state of more or less perpetual confusion. The thoughts and images running through his mind are a bewildering jumble - some of them from a much earlier period while others are of the very recent past. He has great difficulty distinguishing between events that happened twenty-five years ago and those of two weeks earlier. One moment he’s nineteen, confronting an armed robber in his parents grocery store in Flagstaff; the next he’s facing down a drugged out crazy in a back alley in Tarzana. This changes abruptly to a scene of him and Anna lying on a beach in Maui, nursing margaritas. Then, suddenly, he’s traversing the darkened hallway of an apartment in East L.A. These images, like the countless others that bombard him continually, are as sharp and vivid as if he were actually reliving them.

  He has no memory of the events just prior to the shooting in East L.A. He remembers Tank busting in the door of apartment 312 and then seeing two men leaning over a coffee table, but that’s all. Everything after that is a blank, until he wakes up in the hospital and sees Tristan.

  He is aware of his injuries. Multiple gunshots. One to the head. Beyond this he has no knowledge, and little interest. He has caught occasional snippets of conversations between the doctors and nurses that swirl about him in a seemingly endless profusion of activity and from these he has deduced that his prospects are not good.

  The possible end of his own life does not cause him any particular concern. At least not directly. But during periods when his mind clears sufficiently that he is able to reason things out he worries about what will happen to Tristan if he dies. Since the death of her mother she has become overly attached to him, although he has not had the heart to criticize her for it. She was very close to her mother and has, naturally enough he supposes, transferred some of that intimacy to him. That he may not be there for her in the future causes him considerable mental anguish.

  It is during the evening, when hospital activity quiets down, that Jake is startled by a frightening image of Tristan materializing in his mind.

  A knife is being held to her throat by an unseen assailant. Jake sees blood. Massive amounts of it.

  Suddenly, the image is gone. But in it’s wake is the conscious recognition that what he saw was real. Just as real as the images from the past that keep assailing him. He struggles against his constraints, desperate to tell someone what he’s seen. He tries to call for help. But all his throat is able to produce is a scratchy whimper.

  The strain is too much for him. His mind goes blank and, as quickly as someone might turn out the lights, he is asleep.

  Paradoxically, the world of his dreams is peaceful.

  When he comes awake, a full eleven hours later, daylight is filtering into his room through half-closed Venetian blinds and he is greeted to the hazy impression of someone standing at the foot of his bed.

  “Good morning, Daddy,” Tristan says.

  He realizes a nurse is holding his wrist, taking his pulse. “About time you woke up,” she says, sounding pleased.

  A tremendous feeling of relief washes through him. His vision of the night before has not, yet at least, come to pass. With some effort he brings Tristan's face into focus and, in it, sees a world of worry and anguish. By some inexplicable process he knows, with a certainty he cannot possibly rationalize, that what his daughter is about to tell him will confirm what he already knows to be fact.

  The Goddess Slayer has made contact with her.

  6

  Marius Dupree, his manner and appearance those of a septuagenarian, winds his way north along Highway 97 in central Oregon. The pace he has set for himself is leisurely. He stops at quiet roadside cafes for his meals, affecting a stooped posture and arthritic movements. Nights are spent in lonely, out of the way hostels befitting an elderly man of modest means.

  He finds it interesting how people react to him in this guise. There are the impertinent teenagers who roll their eyes when he takes too long with his order; the kindly forty-somethings who are reminded of their own aging parents and are more tolerant of his lassitude; and then, of course, his peers - those widowed old gals who see in him a few years of companionship.

  In this mode he is the epitome of patience - a truly gentle man.

  He has as yet no real destination in mind. The further north he travels the more inclined he is to consider seeing a little of Canada. He’s been told it’s a clean country, sparsely populated by friendly people. His only previous visit to the land of the maple leaf was some half dozen years earlier, and that consisted of a brief stopover in Montreal while en route to, of all places, Moscow. What in God’s name had ever possessed him to visit that most dreary of cities he has not the slightest clue. At the time it had seemed like a good idea, he supposes.

  At a truck stop in Bend he studies his map. He could continue north through Washington, cross the border at Oroville, and enter British Columbia at Osoyoos. Then make his way west along the Hope Princeton highway, spend some time in Vancouver. Or he could opt to go in the other direction altogether. Perhaps investigate the mid-west or even the New England states. He decides he’ll play it by ear, to coin an inane American expression. He’ll go as far as Spokane, then choose.

  * *

  In Los Angeles the massive manhunt for the Goddess Slayer continues, but the investigation garners little optimism for a positive outcome in the short term. As usual, crime scene investigators were unable to lift a single suspicious print from Carlotta Fuentes’ condo. Even her shoulders, where heavy bruising occurred, were wiped down to foil any attempt at recovering fingerprint evidence from that source.

  Schultz and Abrams interview Jake to learn he has no memory of events immediately preceding the shooting. So much for an expert eyewitness description. And the two most promising pieces of evidence yet uncovered have revealed only that the killer is a white male whose natural hair color is black and that he is probably in his late twenties or early thirties. The wig and glasses found two blocks from the crime scene in East L.A. turn out to be cheap, masquerade-type accessories, intended more as jokes than as subtly effective disguises, and can be purchased at a vast number of outlets throughout the city, not to mention the country. Tracing them will be next to impossible and the endeavor will doubtless prove a waste of time. Nonetheless, a concerted effort is made to run down this unpromising lead. Very considerable energy, however, is devoted to determining the possible source of the Uzi. Uniform
ed officers and detectives hit the streets throughout the city, calling in favors, pressuring snitches. Somebody sold this thing to their perp. Somebody knows who he is.

  But two weeks go by and they come up with nothing in the way of a solid lead.

  Bobby Schultz and Keith Abrams have been called to the carpet so many times by now, Lieutenant Travetti has wearied of threats. His appeals for some kind of headway in the case are now more in the nature of pleas than intimidation. Captain Townsend has made it clear heads will roll if they don’t announce an arrest soon, and Travetti can already see the slippery path to forced retirement wending it’s way before him.

  The one positive note in the investigation at present is that the killer has not struck again since East L.A. Nobody, however, is idealistic enough to believe he has made the decision to stop killing.

  * *

  One month to the day after his admission to Cedars-Sinai, Jake makes a decision about the course his life will take. Actually, two decisions are made. The first: regardless of the risk, when he is able he will get up from this bed, walk out of the hospital, and, in so far as it is possible, live a normal life. If there is one thing he is sure of it’s that he would rather die than be held captive by the stultifyingly claustrophobic apparatus that keeps him in this static existence.

  The second decision: He will find the Goddess Slayer. Killing his partner in itself would have been more than enough to get Jake to devote whatever remains of his life to the killer’s apprehension. But threatening his daughter - that takes it. If it’s the last thing he ever does, he swears to himself, he will see to it that the killer's reign of terror is brought to an end.

  Tristan, of course, had adamantly denied that anything was amiss during her visit that morning two weeks earlier, but the moment he had seen her face he had known with absolute certainty that a direct threat had been made. Jake could not have explained to Tristan, or to anyone else, how he knew this. But that he did know, there was no refuting.