The Killing League

by Dani Amore

  As much as they both tried to avoid it, Mack was always surprised at how often they spoke of that time of their lives. It all peaked around the same time as the Jeffrey Kostner case. His involvement, obsession really, with catching the sadistic killer. Then the aftermath of his involvement with Nicole Candela. Reznor’s marriage ended. And Janice, already deep into the worst kind of alcoholism, fell in love with another drunk and they locked themselves up in a shitty apartment for months on end, drinking their brains to oatmeal.

  And Whidby became the sworn enemy of Wallace Mack, eventually pushing him out of the Bureau. Which Mack was only too happy to let happen.

  Plus, he needed to take care of Janice.

  “So what are you working on?” Reznor said.

  Mack sat back down with fresh coffee for both of them. “I re-sent a request to the Georgia Tri-State Trucking Commission that manages driver information for Florida, Georgia and Alabama. I got no response the first time.”

  “Typical,” Reznor said.

  “And I also sent another request to the Charleston Municipal Hospital for detailed personnel records.”

  Reznor looked over the edge of her cup at him. “Charleston?”

  “They’ve had some suspicious deaths the last couple years. Recently, a young girl died for no reason. They did an autopsy but couldn’t find anything conclusive. Just the trace presence of some medication that shouldn’t have been there.”

  “Want me to lean on them?” Reznor said. Since she was still active duty FBI, she could make a more authoritative request than Mack.

  “I think I’ll get a response soon from both of them. If I don’t, maybe then I’ll bring out my Secret Weapon.”

  She smiled at the compliment.

  “So how’s Janice?” she said.

  Mack sighed. “She’s good. It’s just that she keeps saying that someone is watching her.”

  “Is it the memory thing?”

  “I think so,” Mack said. “People with this illness create memories to take the place of those that have been lost. But she usually doesn’t repeat the same fantasy. Other than her old boyfriend Shelby. The one she holed up with and drank her brain away. She used to see him regularly, but this latest one is someone new.

  “What does she say?” Reznor said.

  Mack looked out at the river.

  “That a man is watching her. And that he gave her this.” Mack retrieved the card from the kitchen counter and slid it across the table to Reznor.

  “KL,” she said. “What is it?”

  Mack shrugged. “I haven’t been able to find anything that matches. No local companies. No follow-up phone calls for landscaping services. It just appeared like that.”

  She set it back down on the table.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. Probably just a catering service or something. Some kind of weird promotion.”

  Mack turned back to face her.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.” But even to him, his voice sounded hollow.

  34.

  Florence Nightmare

  She hadn’t slept a wink. All night, flat on her back, in her room at the end of the hall. The last time she had traveled was an hour from her home to a medical training seminar that was required for her nursing license. She hated traveling.

  Ruth Dykstra could still picture every bump and ridge in the plaster work of the hotel room’s ceiling, as it was lit by the sliver of moonlight driving through the narrow gap in the curtains.

  The ceiling’s textured ridges had looked like little mountain ranges to her, and she had imagined miniature deer and elk running across the plaster work, chased by giant grizzlies with enormous razor sharp claws catching them and ripping them into bloody chunks of meat, splashing the snow with Pollack like strands of blood and guts.

  Fatigue, however, was not affecting her in the least. Strangely, she felt fresh and alive. The anxiety of traveling, of a new city — who could have ever imagined she would visit Omaha, Nebraska? The stress was there, definitely, but she had beaten it back, and focused on the here and now.

  She was here for one reason and one reason only. To find out who had invaded her home, her private life, and delved into her little hobby, as she liked to think of it. Her achievements.

  Ruth Dykstra planned to find that person, and make sure they never bothered her again. Ever.

  She spotted the KL placard and walked into the conference room. She spotted the big oak tree of a man standing by the door. Was he the one? Ruth ruled him out, he looked like a hired security guard or something.

  Her attention was drawn to the guy slouching in the fancy suit with the wavy hair and flashy watch. Was he the one?

  No, she immediately discounted that idea. He didn’t look like a leader. He looked like a spoiled brat. So, was he a person with a “hobby” similar to hers? Ruth couldn’t imagine it. He looked like a little smarty pants weasel boy. Like one of the rich doctors who liked to flash their money around and try to show off for the younger, prettier nurses.

  Ruth went to the semicircle of chairs and took a seat as far from the spoiled, rich boy as she could. He glanced at her, then looked away. A sneer on his face.

  Well poo on you, too, Ruth thought.

  She took a deep breath and imagined she was back in her living room. Her mind recreated every one of her paintings, one at a time. The swirls of paint captured agony in its various incarnations. Her achievements came to life in her mind and Ruth relaxed.

  Bring it on, she thought.

  35.

  Nicole

  Nicole stood at the back of the classroom, sweat coming off her in sheets. Her body was exhausted, her legs were rubbery and her forearms hurt from repeated blows.

  In short, she had never been happier.

  She took a long drink from her water bottle and started packing her gear into her duffel bag.

  “Hey Nicole,” a voice called out to her.

  She turned and saw the new guy, Kurt, walking up to her. He had joined the class a little less than a month ago and had quickly become one of the better students.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “That was brutal today,” he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He was a little bit taller than her, with short brown hair, blue eyes and a pleasant face. Kind of handsome in a boy-next-door kind of way.

  “Yeah, I’ll be feeling this one for a few days,” she said.

  Kurt looked around then dipped his head a little bit. Nicole felt herself tense. It had been a long time, but she had a feeling she knew what was coming.

  “Do you feel like going and grabbing a beer?” he said. “I think we’ve earned one.” He gave her a sheepish grin.

  She wasn’t sure what kind of expression she had on her face but it must not have been very welcoming because he immediately held up his hands in mock surrender.

  “Totally innocent, I swear,” he said. “You know, friends. Classmates. Maybe ask you for some pointers.”

  Nicole had gotten pretty good with hiding her emotions, so she was surprised that he read her that easily.

  Mentally, she gathered herself.

  “Sure, that sounds good.” The words sounded foreign to her. Had she just accepted a date, sort of? Her therapist would be proud. But she wasn’t sure if she was. She’d been asked out many times before, since her recovery from the attack. She had always flatly refused. It just hadn’t been on her radar. The focus had been on herself. Making room and giving herself time to heal.

  Plus, in the back of her mind there had always been someone else hanging around the fringes of her days. Wallace Mack was the bright spot, the one shining ray of hope that had helped her get through that hellish period of her life.

  She realized Kurt was waiting for an answer. She thought about it. She had to be at the restaurant in about three hours. Plenty of time to grab a beer, then go home, shower and change.

  It would still leave her enough time to let Sal out, maybe even take him for a quick walk for some fresh air and exercise
.

  Besides, it was just a beer.

  What could it hurt?

  36.

  The Messiah

  The Messiah felt a sense of liberation, traveling without his entourage. There was some annoyance, certainly, he had to do everything himself. But there was a small amount of freedom that he actually relished. He realized he would grow tired of it quickly, but for once the solitude felt good. No eyes watching his every move. All of the great men of the past sought refuge from their followers occasionally.

  He would use this experience to learn new tools and techniques that would allow him to rule his following with more clarity and power.

  And he would recruit, naturally. He never stopped recruiting. Gathering new individuals to his fold was something he’d always achieved quite easily. Ever since he was a strange little kid with blazing blue eyes, he could coerce, pressure, lure or con just about anyone he wanted into following him. For him, it was as easy as an expert violinist plucking out notes to a simple song.

  The woman behind the counter at the hotel right now, for instance. He looked at her, and he could read her path. He could see the hurt and resentment. The small fire of a rebellion toward authority, and a very deep sense of unworthiness. She didn’t like herself much, or think she was very attractive.

  The Messiah understood this intuitively. None of these were conscious thoughts.

  But he knew in the well of his soul that he could have this young woman in his hotel room tonight, obeying his every command, if he so wished.

  It was not his desire at the moment, so he let it be, secure in the knowledge that should he change his mind she was here for his taking.

  “The KL Conference,” he said, his voice soft but firm. The moment he spoke, he could tell she recognized the innate power in his voice.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, glancing down at a cheap ledger on her desktop. “That would be the Conference Room B — second door on the left, down that hall.” She gave him a winning smile that made him want to dress her down, and expose her innermost secrets. Hear her beg him to make her whole again.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  He walked down the hallway to the KL placard, and entered the room. The Messiah paused and took in the room, the seating area, the two individuals already sitting, and the security guard near the door.

  The Messiah instantly felt in command. He would love to meet the individual responsible for this intrusion into his life, and would enjoy bending the man’s will to his own.

  He ignored the two people — the weak man in the expensive suit, and the old, sad woman at the end of the row of chairs.

  The Messiah took his rightful spot in the center seat, without acknowledging the other two.

  He would wait.

  And when he wished, he would take control.

  37.

  Mack

  Mack shifted from being a brother to a parent with relative ease. The time spent caring for Janice had taught him the ability to play whatever role was required of him at the time. Sometimes he was the loving brother. Other times, the stern parent setting boundaries. And in some situations, like this one, he was the nurturing parent.

  He was sitting in his favorite chair, reading a book about Great White sharks off the coast of California.

  Lately, he found himself falling asleep in his reading chair or in front of the television with increasing frequency. Sometimes, he just sat and waited for Janice to awaken in the middle of the night.

  Mack had been on that fine line between reading and nearly dozing off when his sister appeared in the hallway, whimpering.

  “Janice,” Mack said. His sister shook with uncontrollable spasms. For reasons even the doctors couldn’t explain, she occasionally became paranoid and had trouble sleeping. It was a feature of Korsakoff’s Syndrome — not all patients exhibited similar problems. For Janice, nocturnal disturbances sometimes occurred.

  Tonight was one of those nights.

  “I thought I was in the hospital, with the nurses stabbing me with needles,” she said. Her dark hair, once full and lush, hung in weak straggling strands around her face. Her cheeks were wet from crying.

  Mack went to her, put his arms around her and held her.

  “Shhh,” he said. He could feel her heart pounding against him. It was beating a million miles an hour. He stroked her hair and kissed away her tears.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

  The hospital was another one of Janice’s recurring nightmares. When Mack had broken into the apartment she shared with a degenerate named Shelby, what he found had shocked him. Utter filth and madness. The room reeked of alcohol, body odor and human excretion. Janice was alone, near death. First they’d gone to the ER, then later, to a mental hospital to try to put her mind back together.

  Later, Mack learned that Shelby had made it out of the apartment earlier — and had been taken straight to the morgue.

  Janice had spent almost six months in the hospital, rebuilding her immune system and taking tests to determine how much damage had occurred.

  At least once a month, she dreamed of the hospital.

  Now, he took her back to her room and helped her back into bed. Mack turned on the little night light next to her bathroom.

  From a low bookcase near the door, Mack pulled a copy of James and the Giant Peach, by Roald Dahl. For whatever reason, Janice reacted to the story. She loved the cover. The giant peach, the insects, floating in the water.

  Mack opened the page.

  “Until he was four years old, James Henry Trotter had had a happy life. He lived peacefully with his mother and father in a beautiful house beside the sea.”

  He read for several more minutes, then paused when he heard the sound of Janice’s breath change. It became more audible and slower. He peeked at her. Janice’s eyes were closed. He kept reading another five minutes until he was sure she was sound asleep. He then closed the book and slipped quietly out of the room.

  He went to the balcony overlooking the river.

  He heard the palmetto leaves sway next to the macadamia nut tree he planted last year. This year, he hoped he would get some fruit.

  Something splashed in the river and Mack listened for a follow-up sound. If the alligators were mating, there would be more splashing and low-pitched groans.

  Nothing sounded. The splash had probably been a mullet, feeding on algae.

  Going to sleep was a distant possibility. He thought of the cases, of the crime map on the wall in his office.

  He still hadn’t heard back from the Charleston Hospital and the Georgia Trucking Commission.

  Mack was growing impatient. He walked back into the house and headed for his office. Maybe it was time to bring in Ellen Reznor.

  His secret weapon.

  38.

  Lady of the Evening

  Amanda Dekins thought the hotel looked like any of the other hundreds of hotels and motels and inns and rooming houses in which she’d done business.

  When she had been younger and slimmer, and her tits had stood up straight and proud, she had been to all the upscale hotels. Back then, the majority of her clientele had been successful businessmen who would think nothing of shucking out eight hundred bucks for a couple hours with an 18 year old hottie.

  Now, she was lucky to get 800 bucks after a long night of work.

  Still, she’d worked in a lot worse dumps than this place. A lot worse.

  She ignored the woman at the front desk and walked down the hallway, immediately spotting the KL placard. This was it, she thought. There could be some psycho in there, maybe a relative of some john she’d done in. Or maybe it was some vice cop looking to arrest her. She remembered a scam run by the FBI where they sent fugitives notice that they’d won a television and all they had to do was show up at a certain place and time. When they did, they were arrested.

  Somehow, though, she didn’t think either one of those would be the case. No, this was someone who wanted to play
some games. And unfortunately for him, he’d picked the wrong bitch to play them with.

  Dekins paused, shook out a cigarette and fired it up. She walked into the conference room and glanced at the security guard, almost daring him to say something about her clear violation of the non-smoking rule.

  He remained silent.

  She looked at the row of chairs in the semicircle in front of the big television screen. An old bag, a freaky looking guy and some stoner businessman all sat in chairs facing a flat screen.

  Yeah, fuck that, she thought. She wasn’t about to sit close to those total losers.

  Dekins walked across the room, felt the eyes of the three already seated, and reached the back wall, then turned and leaned a shoulder against it, bringing the cigarette to her mouth and breathing out smoke.

  She would stay right here during all this bullshit. She wasn’t here to make friends. She was here to get this over with and hopefully make the bastard pay who’d complicated her life for no good reason.

  And then when it was over, maybe she’d find a couple of lonely, desperate businessmen and make a few bucks.

  39.

  Nicole

  Lulu’s on Main Street in Venice was halfway between the Pekiti Tirsia studio and Nicole’s house. She parked her Acura, plugged the meter and went inside.

  A television over the bar showed a soccer game in progress halfway around the world. Kurt waved to her from a stool at the end of the bar and Nicole took a seat next to him.

  She ordered a bottle of her favorite Mexican beer, Dos Equis.

  “I’m surprised how crowded it is,” Kurt said, glancing at the dining room, which was easily three-quarters full and it was still quite early.

  Lulu’s was considered a bit of a tourist trap, but the Mexican food was good, the margaritas were big, and the location couldn’t be better.