The Killing League

by Dani Amore

Nicole took a drink from her beer and glanced over at Kurt.

  “I guess happy hour is starting early today,” she said. “So how long have you been training?” she asked.

  He took a pull from his Corona. Nicole watched the lime float back to the surface. “A couple years,” he said. “I did aikido for a long time. Almost ten years.”

  “Why the switch?” she asked.

  He gave a little shrug and she thought he looked a little nervous.

  “Something new,” he said. “I like that Pekiti Tirsia uses edged weapons. Most of the time, you don’t get attacked by guys with long bamboo sticks.”

  No, Nicole thought, most of the time that’s not how it works when you’re attacked. A little shiver ran down her back and she was always surprised at how close to the surface her memories were. Any mention of attack still triggered a reaction deep down in her gut.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Not a lot of gangbangers and crack addicts walking around with Malaysian fighting sticks.”

  Kurt smiled. Nicole liked his easy grin. He didn’t have perfect teeth, but they were good, and his face creased into something warm and friendly.

  “How about you?” he asked.

  She felt a small flutter of apprehension. It used to be much more than a flutter. At times it had practically felt like a flock of Canadian geese taking off inside her, whenever someone new started to ask about her past. It was her own nervous reaction, wondering when, where and how she would tell them she was once famous for, well, something no one wanted to be famous for.

  Of course, the guys at class knew about her past, and they might have told Kurt, but Nicole guessed that he didn’t know.

  “A couple of years,” she said. “I love it. From day one, I’ve loved it. The movements, the strategy, applying strength in a strategic way. It really is an art form.”

  Nicole took a drink of her beer. It felt great after the sweaty air of the fighting studio.

  “So what do you do for a living?” Kurt asked.

  “I run a restaurant,” Nicole said.

  “Really? What’s the name?” he said.

  “Thicque, spelled with a q-u-e, instead of a k.”

  “What kind of food do you serve?”

  “California nouveau. A little bit of whatever I feel like,” Nicole said.

  “I’d like to go sometime,” Kurt said.

  “You should. Stop by, I’ll take good care of you,” she said.

  Kurt looked at her and smiled.

  Nicole felt her face flush. That wasn’t what she’d meant to say, it had come out wrong.

  But from the look on Kurt’s face, he didn’t mind.

  40.

  Family Man

  Brent Tucker was dressed in a neat but worn blue suit with a white shirt and conservative red tie. He carried his leather briefcase in his right hand, and a leather folder carrying a legal size notepad and two pens in his left hand.

  His wallet, with his driver’s license and credit cards was in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. A thick packet of family pictures was in the breast pocket of his shirt. It bulged because the pictures of his wife and children were plentiful.

  He’d been to these types of conferences before. Not a lot of them but enough to know that frequently businessmen showed off pictures of their families back home to convince everyone what good family men they all were. And to maybe fool people into believing they weren’t going to go out that night, get drunk and find a hooker or a strip club.

  A good, loving family is such a wonderful disguise. Everyone knew that.

  Tucker walked into the lobby of the Holiday Inn, bypassed the front desk and walked directly to the conference room behind the KL placard.

  Without hesitation, he walked to the row of chairs in front of the television screen and sat down. He paid no attention to the others. He was here to find out his assignment, and perform whatever damage control he would need.

  Tucker put his briefcase on the floor between his legs, and opened his leather memo pad. He took out one pen, clicked it, and wrote at the top of the first sheet “KL meeting.”

  He adjusted his tie and waited, staring straight ahead. He still didn’t even so much as glance at the other people in the room. This was going to be just like all of the computer product information he was so adroit at reformatting and consolidating into one logical flow.

  He would take in the necessary information, analyze it, reroute it, and then take the necessary steps to make it a smooth, logical plan.

  He would then execute that plan without varying one iota from his strategy. It would be thorough, flawless and a smashing success.

  And then he would kill the person who had disturbed his carefully constructed life.

  In the process, he would collect a trophy or two as well.

  41.

  Mack

  “Welcome back,” Mack said to Adelia as she entered the house. He smiled at her.

  “What’s that big grin for?” she said, acting with some bravado but he saw right through it. As big and bold as she acted, even Adelia sometimes appeared to him like an innocent youth. A youth who just had a great weekend of romance with her husband now going back to his military job in a far off land.

  “No reason,” he said. “You and Oscar have a nice weekend?”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “You hinting at something, Mr. Mack?”

  He raised his hands. “I would never, ever chuckle at the power of love.”

  Janice walked over and she and Adelia hugged. They immediately started talking like long lost friends. Once again, Mack thanked his lucky stars that he had found someone as kind and warm as Adelia. Janice loved the woman.

  He retreated to his office, shut and locked the door. He had a small fridge next to his desk. He reached inside and twisted the cap off a bottle of beer. He put his feet on the desk and stared at the wall.

  It was his work. What he always came back to. He loved Janice, loved taking care of her. But he loved catching bad guys. And not just any bad guys. The worst of the worst. Other than Janice, it was what he lived for.

  He took a long pull from the beer.

  He looked at his map. He had color coded push pins to represent murders he thought belonged to one killer. Each killer had his or her own color. The killer in Fort Walton Beach, in his opinion, a woman, had purple.

  That one intrigued him. Partly because he lived close enough where he could drive over and do some investigative work on his own. And partly because female serial killers were so rare. It was an area of profiling that needed more data.

  The reason she was so successful was the same reason killers who preyed on prostitutes got away with it: the people involved in sex for sale were anonymous. Fake names. Disguises. Contrived personas.

  It was the perfect hunting ground.

  Mack finished his beer and grabbed a second.

  Something had to break. Or he would be adding another victim push pin, and soon.

  42.

  Truck Drivin’ Man

  There wasn’t any room for the big rig in the hotel parking lot, so Roger Dawson pulled into the Outback Steakhouse parking lot where it butted up against the west side of the Holiday Inn.

  He could have used the plane tickets they sent him, but he preferred to drive. Besides, he’d wanted to give the organizer of this thing a big ‘fuck- you’ of sorts.

  Now, he clambered down from the truck cab and walked across the parking lot to the hotel. He wasn’t nervous. He felt instead a sort of anxiousness. Kind of like in high school just before he’d pick a fight with one of the football players who didn’t really know how to fight. Those fucking clods were so big no one ever challenged them. Dawson loved to pick a fight and stomp on their instep, knee ‘em in the balls, and give ‘em an elbow right across the jaw. They’d even tried to gang up on him once, but they just couldn’t handle being hit without wearing a helmet. Nothing like a broken nose to discourage namby pamby rich boys.

  He ambled across the parking lot and
walked through the hotel doors after they whisked open. Speaking of namby pamby rich boys, Dawson thought, whoever put this stupid ass thing together was light in the loafers. Sending out those faggy little envelopes with the fancy writing. Dawson would love to crack this dude’s skull as soon as he got a chance.

  Dawson walked into the lobby and glanced at the welcome desk. There was no one there. He stepped into the hallway, and looked down toward the open doors with signs in front of them. He spotted the KL logo, remembered it from the envelope that fag prick had sent him, and walked into the room.

  He spotted the big slab of meat standing by the door. Big guns on the guy. Dawson recognized a hired enforcer when he saw one. The guy had probably never been in a real fight in his life. Or he’d gotten his ass kicked when he was young and hit the weight room, hoping big muscles would scare off anyone. Total pussy, Dawson thought. Sure as shit.

  Dawson looked around at the rest of the people in the room. What a bunch of assholes. The guy in the suit was sort of interesting. He had a brief fantasy about getting the guy up in one of the rooms, hitting him over the head and having his way with him.

  Leave him up there until the maids come the next morning and find whatever was left of him.

  Dawson started to get a hardon.

  He went over to the guy in the suit. He sat in the empty chair next to him. Dawson could smell his cologne.

  It smelled good.

  Dude wouldn’t smell so good after he was done with him, Dawson thought.

  43.

  Nicole

  Of all the tools Nicole had learned to use from her team of therapists, counselors and friends, one was her favorite.

  It was called the Scrapbook of Memories.

  After the attack and the publicity, Nicole had fallen into a deep depression. She had isolated herself, save for a select few, and her moods had become increasingly negative. She was also highly paranoid, even though no one could blame her for that emotion.

  Her therapist at the time had pointed out her new pattern of seeing everything, even the past, in negative terms. Even though everyone told her it was very normal — survivor guilt, post-traumatic stress syndrome — it didn’t feel normal. And simply knowing what your illness is doesn’t necessarily make it easier to deal with.

  Nicole’s therapist finally suggested a journal where she could start recording positive experiences, including things from her past if she wished.

  It was to be a scrapbook of positive memories.

  Nicole had initially scoffed at the idea. A Happy Book, she had originally thought of it. Filled with only happy pictures and happy thoughts. It sounded like something for a kindergarten project. Or something used by that Saturday Night Live character, Stuart Smalley. What had been his catchphrase? Oh yeah, she remembered. ‘Because I’m good enough, smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like me!’

  Nicole laughed out loud.

  Over time, however, the therapist had convinced her to give it a try, despite her cynicism. She had gone back to her childhood, picked out ten or so of her favorite memories. Like the time her Mom and Dad had surprised her with an electric scooter on her birthday. The time she had finally scored a goal in soccer. The afternoon tea she had shared with her favorite Grandmother weeks before the elderly woman had passed away.

  Nicole eventually added more pictures, short notes she would write about special days, even if it was just a hike through the mountains with a friend or an especially beautiful sunrise.

  The book had now become almost two hundred pages, and Nicole was a believer.

  Now, she flipped through the pages at random, and found herself smiling, as usual. She had added a page of things collected over the last few months, including the grand opening of Thicque.

  She turned as she always did to the two pictures in the book of Wallace Mack. One was a clipping from a newspaper that showed his tired face. It had been snapped at a press conference.

  The other photograph was taken of the two of them walking along the beach in Santa Monica. It was well after the publicity of the shocking case had gone away. Mack had frequently visited Nicole, trying to help her through her pain. Ultimately, she had pushed him away because even though she suspected she had fallen in love with him, and she surmised he had fallen in love with her too, the memories he stirred up were too much for Nicole. She had needed a break from Mack. From the case. From the memories of Jeffrey Kostner.

  So they had separated for a brief time.

  They had never gotten back together.

  Now, Nicole flipped through the pages. She wasn’t quite sure why she had turned again to the book. She rarely questioned the need, only that the vague sense of darkness that used to blossom inside her like ink in water was known to hang around, waiting for an opening.

  Maybe it had been just one of those days when a person feels like they need to smile, Nicole thought. One of those days when you can see the clouds looming and need a shot of sunshine to make sure at least a little warmth will seep through the day.

  Or maybe deep down, she knew something bad was going to happen.

  44.

  The Butcher

  Roy Skittlecorn was not a traveler. In the last twenty years he had left home only once, and that was for a wedding.

  He liked routine. He enjoyed getting up in the morning and knowing exactly how the day would go. No surprises, no control turned over to someone else.

  He explained to his two employees that he would have to attend a meat distribution emergency meeting and that he would return within a matter of days. The shop was run like a military operation, and they could handle it while he was gone.

  Now, Skittlecorn asked at the Holiday Inn of Omaha’s front desk about his conference, and was directed to the KL meeting room.

  There were two empty seats at the front of the room facing the big television screen. A big guy stood by the door, and a skanky looking woman was lounging at the back, smoking a cigarette. She glared at him. He stared at her. She looked like a whore. A used up piece of meat, over tenderized. And way too skinny. Cut up, she would amount to nothing.

  He walked to the front and sat next to an older lady who glanced at him, without smiling. Now she was more like it. Thick, big boned. He pictured her meaty leg sliced up and placed in plastic wrapping paper. Plenty of ham hocks out of that one.

  He wondered if all of these people had the same hobby as his. Or if it was really just the cops, here to arrest him.

  The slow rage that had been building in him ever since he’d gotten the note, ever since they’d violated the sanctuary of his shop, was building. And now that he was here, now that he’d followed their directions this far, the rage was threatening to ignite. Of course, he hadn’t been allowed to bring any of his tools onto the plane, but he could always find some. Or go old school.

  Just get a hacksaw from a hardware store, and grind it out. He’d start with that filthy bitch at the back of the room. Maybe she’d learn not to stare at someone with a dirty look.

  After that, maybe he’d—

  Just then, the giant television screen came to life. The black was replaced with gray. Skittlecorn heard movement at the back of the room and turned to see the security guard move to the conference room door and shut and lock it.

  When he turned back to face the screen, the gray was gone.

  In its place…

  …was a man.

  Skittlecorn looked at him. So this was the guy? This was the asshole who had broken into his shop and left that stupid note?

  He looked more closely.

  The guy was in his late forties or early fifties. He had short gray hair, almost a buzz cut, and dark eyes. He wore a shirt and tie.

  He looked kind of like someone you’d see in a commercial for toothpaste or Cialis.

  The man began to speak.

  45.

  Mack

  “That’s bullshit!” Mack said. He pressed the phone tighter against his ear, as if he hadn’t heard right. He absolutely cou
ldn’t believe what Ellen Reznor was telling him.

  “They have no record of your requests,” she reiterated.

  “But that’s impossible!” he said. He paced around his office. “I received responses from both of them. They both said they would look into my request and get back to me. You saw the messages.”

  He had forwarded to Reznor his correspondence, or lack thereof, between himself, the Georgia Trucking Commission and the Charleston Municipal Hospital.

  “I showed all of that to the directors of both the hospital and the trucking commission,” Reznor said. “Both claimed that although the emails had come from them, there was no record of who sent them, or a request actually being placed.”

  Mack plopped into his office chair. “What am I missing?”

  “I’m not sure what happened, but they’re both now fully tasked with your requests and I expect we’ll hear from them quite quickly,” she said. “I used that famous Reznor charm that’s kept me single for so long.”

  Mack knew what she meant. No one wanted to be on the wrong side of Ellen Reznor.

  He tapped the keyboard on his computer and the screen came to life. “If it had just been one of them that claimed they’d never received my response, I wouldn’t be so pissed off. But both? That just doesn’t make sense.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Reznor said. “The only common denominator is you.”

  “Yeah, me,” Mack said.

  He leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

  “What are you thinking?” Reznor said.

  Mack dropped his gaze back to his computer. He thought about the strange things Janice had been saying of late, about a strange man watching her.

  He looked again at his computer screen.

  “Do you think Whidby is tracking everything I do? On my computer?” he said.

  He could almost hear the notion strike Reznor.

  “Yeah,” Reznor said. “He probably is. You’re still using a Bureau computer, right? Bureau email? Bureau databases?”