by Mark Murphy
"What the hell is going on?" he said out loud. His iPhone vibrated. He plucked it back out and looked at the screen. There was a text message:
About time you made it home.
It was sent by the same phone number that had sent him the text after Ben had been shot. He entered the number on Google and got a phone registered to aJohn Smith of Savannah, Georgia.
"Dummy account," Malcolm mumbled, shaking his head.
He looked around. Whoever it was could see he was in the house. They either had to be watching from the outside or . . .
"Dammit!" he exclaimed.
He walked into the entrance foyer, checking the walls and the ceiling and finding nothing. He looked around the door, also finding nothing. The grandfather clock was also clean.
When that fake cop came in, he put his hands on the table . . .where?
Malcolm felt around the table's rim. Nothing at first, but then . . .
There.
A bump. Sure enough, there it was, hidden under one edge of the table: a wireless webcam, almost certainly placed there when the fake "cop" paid him a visit a few days back.
He crushed the device under his heel. Another text came up almost immediately.
Found my toy, I see.
Malcolm tried calling the number, but there was no answer. The voice mail was not active.
He texted back:
Where is my family?
An almost immediate reply:
I have them. As you might have guessed. And if you want to see them alive again, you'll do as I say.
Malcolm was furious. He slammed his palms on the desktop, sweat beading on his brow.
And then he noticed it: something red in the trashcan, on a wadded-up piece of paper.
Blood?
He took the piece of paper out of the trashcan with trembling hands and opened it.
It was the title page of his lap appy paper, with the imprint of a woman's lips on it in lipstick. It was a lip print that resembled Amy's, but the imprint was smaller.
Mimi's?
Yes, he was certain that it was Mimi's, although it was smudged. Mimi's lip print was directly over Joel Birkenstock's name. Malcolm smiled in spite of himself.
"Clever girl," he said out loud.
Malcolm realized that Billy had been right, that Jernigan and Birkenstock were indeed the same person, the chameleon Billy called "the Shadow Man." Billy's methods may not have been kosher, but the big Seminole had positively identified the culprit—a man who had used deception to get into Malcolm's life in order to destroy it.
And that sociopath now had his wife and daughter.
Malcolm decided it was time to engage in a little deception of his own.
He looked in his directory and called Joel Birkenstock on his cell phone.
"Hey, buddy, how's it hangin'?" Birkenstock said as he answered the phone. "I hope you got my voicemail from earlier. I'll actually be in Savannah tomorrow, in case you wanted to discuss the manuscript. I figure we're probably close to being ready for submission, and . . ."
Malcolm's palms were sweaty, his mouth parched. His pulse was jumping around, flibberty-jibbit, in his chest.
"Joel, or whatever your real name is, cut the crap. What have you done with my wife and daughter? And what do I need to do to get them back?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Malcolm. I'm in Birmingham right now, and while I'm sure you have a wonderful family, I've never met your wife or your daughter. Now, tomorrow, we might . . ."
"Bullshit."
"Pardon me, Mal?"
"Bullshit. You have them, and I know you have them. What, did you think that you're the only person who ever heard of a wireless webcam? I found yours, but I had others of my own all throughout the house. And, yeah, you wiped out my hard drive, but did you ever think that I might have another computer here? One devoted to home surveillance? I've got pictures of you coming and going. I know you printed up a copy of our paper before you wiped the hard drive out. And Billy Littlebear positively identified you as Walter Jernigan, the guy who framed his brother for the murders you committed. Face it, pal, I've got you on the hook, and I'm not letting you off."
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
Come on, you asshole, take the bait, Malcolm thought.
Then Birkenstock spoke.
"So you've spoken to the Chief," he said.
"You mean Billy?"
"Yeah, I mean Billy, the pride of the Seminole police force. Did you know that he's related to Chief Osceola, and even named after him? Old Osceola wasn't even a full-blooded Indian. Didja know that? His real name was Billy Powell. And that's our Billy Littlebear's great, great, I don't know how many times great, grandfather. Which is why I've always called him 'the Chief.' Did the Chief tell you what I did to his wife?"
"He said you killed her."
"Did he tell you that she was pregnant?"
Malcolm's heart stopped. It was only for a moment, but he was certain it had skipped a beat or two.
"No."
"Well. He didn't tell you the whole story then, did he? I'm not even sure that she knew, although she might well have, since she was past the first trimester. I really didn't give her much of an opportunity to talk, you understand. But when I eviscerated her, that uterus was clearly gravid, if you get my drift. With child, for certain. I sliced it open and looked at the dead baby's face right before I dumped her body in the swamp. It was a boy. Looked just like the Chief. And then it was all just gator food, just like the rest of her."
Malcolm felt an ache in his chest as he thought about what a nightmare Billy must be going through.
"You sick bastard," Malcolm said.
"You're damn straight I'm a sick bastard. A straight-up psychopath, if you want to get clinical about it. I've got no remorse and no conscience. You know how liberating that is? But here's the kicker: I'm not just your average dumb-as-a-bag-of-rocks serial killer. I'm a psychopath with a genius-level I.Q. I've never met a cop who was as smart as I am. Or a physician, for that matter. So here's the deal: you've got film of me. Fine. I've got your wife and daughter. Can you say 'trump card'? Of course you can. You don't even have to. We both know it. And if you want to see them alive again, ever, you'll do as I say. Otherwise, it's toodle-oo for poor Amy and Mimi. And that would flat-out suck for you, wouldn't it?"
At that moment, Malcolm hated "Joel Birkenstock" worse than anyone he had ever met in his life. He thought about saying what was really on his mind, but it would serve no purpose with this guy. It might anger him, and that could be a bad thing.
A very bad thing, indeed.
Got to save Amy and Mimi.
"What do you want?" Malcolm said.
"There's a good boy. It's, what, 11:15 now? I want you to meet me on the beach at Tybee at 3 PM. sharp. It's about a 45-minute drive from there, or an hour by boat, as I'm sure you know. That gives you a little time to figure out a mode of transportation. But come alone. No cops, or the deal's off. Of course, I put a bullet in your policeman friend, so that sort of ended any friendly contacts with the police, didn't it? How's old Ben doing these days?"
Malcolm gritted his teeth.
"Where do I meet you?" he said.
"Where? Oh, Jeez, he's all business now. Fine. The end of the beach walkway at 11th Place. Not 11th Street, 11th Place. Across from the grocery store. Got it?"
"Got it."
"Now admit that I'm smarter than you." Malcolm shook his head.
"Say it, you bastard, or that's all she wrote!" Birkenstock snapped.
"You're smarter than me, Joel," Malcolm said.
"Now, that's better. Isn't telling the truth fun? See you at three. And you can call me 'Jack.'"
And with that, Birkenstock hung up.
Exhausted, Malcolm plopped down in his desk chair to think. Normally, this would be the time he'd call Ben, but that wasn't an option now. If he called the cops, they'd probably arrest him. Lord knows Sam Baker would like to. And then Birkenst
ock would kill Amy and Mimi. He had no doubt about that. He only had one ally left in the world, and that was Billy Littlebear. He felt awful for doubting Billy now. Having dealt with the Shadow Man directly, he now understood why Billy wanted to take the son of a bitch down himself.
"I've got to call Billy," he said out loud.
He called Billy's cell phone. It went to voicemail.
"Shit," Malcolm said.
He was getting Daisy some water when his cell rang.
"Billy?"
"I thought we were done," Billy said.
"I'm sorry about that. Kinda lost it there. I just don't know who to trust anymore."
Billy's voice was surprisingly calm.
"I've been there, brother. It's okay," he said.
"You were right. It's Birkenstock. He's got Amy and Mimi. Wants me to meet him at the beach or he says he will kill them."
"He's going to kill them anyway," Billy said.
A chill spread through Malcolm's marrow, seeping into his loins like icewater.
"What?" he said.
"They've seen him. He's just using them to get to you. I hate telling you this, but unless they somehow fit into his plans, they may be dead already."
Malcolm's head reeled.
"I . . . I can't think about that possibility. I've got to presume that they are alive."
"I agree. That's the only thing that makes sense right now. Where are you? Do you want to meet someplace?"
"I'm at the house."
"Your house?"
"Yeah."
Billy chuckled.
"Well, that's hiding in plain sight if I ever heard of it. Doubt the cops would expect you to show up there. How did you get in?" he said.
"By boat. Borrowed the idea from an old Indian tracker I knew once."
"Jeez, these cops are idiots. They should have had the water side covered. Still, that means I can get there the same way, then. I'm still at the boathouse. Can be over at your place in fifteen minutes. By the way, do you think either your wife or daughter have a cell phone with them?"
"They usually do. I don't see them around, but I doubt Birkenstock would have let them keep them."
"No, but maybe the cell phones are being kept in the same location they are. What kinds of phones do they have?"
"Both iPhones, like mine."
"Good. Those have a built-in GPS. We can use the Internet to find out where the phones are. That will give us a starting place. Then maybe I can try to find Amy and Mimi while you are meeting with the Shadow Man."
"Sounds like a plan. I'll see you in a few. Come to the back door. I'll leave it open. And Billy?"
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay, man. I know what you're going through. And like I said, I promise that I will protect your family like I would my own. I can't bring back the dead, but I'll try my damnedest to save the living."
"I know you will, Billy," Malcolm said.
And he meant it.
27
Malcolm showered and shaved, then stared at himself in the mirror. His face was gaunt and tanned, but still easily identifiable as Malcolm King.
Too conspicuous, he thought. He got out the electric shaver.
Five minutes later, all of the hair on his head was gone. He looked like Mr. Clean, only with cranial razor stubble.
"That will have to do," he said out loud.
He was putting on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt when he heard Billy calling his name downstairs.
"Be down in a second," he said.
Malcolm found Billy kneeling down and scratching Daisy's head. Daisy's tail was wagging.
"Glad to see you two are finally getting along," Malcolm said, grinning.
"I just take some getting used to," Billy said. "Seems to be that way with everybody."
Billy stared at Malcolm for a second.
"What happened to your hair?"
"Shaved it off," Malcolm said. "Figured it might help me harder to identify."
"You look like you're on death row already," Billy said.
"Thanks, man," Malcolm said.
"Don't mention it, kemosabe," Billy said, rubbing Malcolm's head.
"So how are we taking this sucker down?" Malcolm asked.
"When does he want you to meet him? And where?"
"Three o'clock. At Tybee."
"That gives us three and a half hours. I think we need to split up. He's going to have to leave Amy and Mimi to meet with you, and I guarantee you he's working alone, so they'll be restrained someplace. If we can find out where he's keeping them, your meeting will be the chance I need to get them out of there."
"Well, how do we find them? You mentioned something about their phones," Malcolm said.
"Phones with a GPS, like an iPhone, can be located on the Internet. Apple actually has a service that helps you locate a lost phone using this capability. And while our Shadow Man won't let the girls have their cell phones, they are either going to be with him or someplace near the two of them. My suspicion is that, right now, he's with them—which will mean that if we find their cell phones, we find him. Got it?"
Malcolm nodded.
"So let's find their phones."
Billy typed the two cell phone numbers into the computer.
"They're both in the same location. Both at Tybee," Billy said.
He wrote down the address and the two numbers on a piece of paper.
"I have this same software on my phone," Billy said. "Now that I have the numbers, I can track the phones if they move."
"What makes you think that he doesn't know about this capability if you do?" Malcolm said.
"Oh, I'm sure he does. But he's betting you don't. And anyway, you have to meet with him. He doesn't know that you have help, and since you can't be two places at once, he figures he's got no risk, anyway."
"That makes sense," Malcolm said.
Billy tapped his temple with an index finger.
"Indian tracker logic."
"Well, what about the cops? Why aren't they using this to find me?"
"They would if they could. They've got to know that you've got a GPS-enabled phone and they have to know the number. Someone will figure that out soon enough. My guess is that it's still too soon. But if this goes on much longer, you'll have to toss that thing."
Malcolm stared at his iPhone as if he expected it to spontaneously ignite.
"I don't think we have that long. And anyway, it's not exactly like I have time to go and purchase a new phone right now."
Billy turned off the computer.
"We've got to get moving. News vans and cops are camped out at the subdivision entrance, so I'll need to get you past them by boat. We'll get you a car once we get you outside. Then we'll split up. You do your mission, I'll do mine, and hopefully we'll save Amy and Mimi and nail this sonofabitch at the same time."
Malcolm made certain that Daisy had plenty of water and gave her some food. She limped over, favoring her injured leg, but her tail was wagging as she began crunching away on the kibble.
"Guard the house, old girl," Malcolm said, scratching her between the ears.
Daisy grunted happily.
Malcolm turned on the alarm and locked the back door.
Billy surveyed the yard from the shelter of the back porch.
"Looks like the coast is clear. Let's go," he said.
The two men rounded the garage and headed down the shell path to the dock. Twin rows of cedars, planted on either side of the shell path, shielded them from view.
As they neared the dock, Malcolm glanced at his watch. It was already noon. The sun was a white-hot orb burning high in a cloudless sky.
Malcolm felt like he was going to throw up.
There was a rustling sound from behind the cedars. Then a rhythmic crunching.
Footsteps, thought Malcolm.
"What's that?" whispered Billy.
"Is somebody there?" a woman's voice said.
"Go!" whispered Malcolm, jerking hi
s thumb in the direction of the dock.
Billy took off running down the shell path.
Malcolm had sprinted two steps when a pixie in pumps stepped out from between the cedar trees. He bowled right over her, knocking them both to the ground. One of her shoes went flying.
Malcolm scrambled to his feet and found himself face-to-face with WKKR news anchor Tina Baker.
"Dr. King?"
Her usually-perfect hair was mussed. There were a few strands of pine straw in it. Her eyes were wary, legs braced, mascara a little smudged.
Dammit! Malcolm thought.
"Are you alone?" Malcolm asked.
"I'm warning you, I know tae kwon do," she said, holding a pair of tiny fists balled up in fighting position. "Second degree black belt."
"I'm not going to hurt you," Malcolm said.
"Yeah, like I've not heard that before. You sound just like my ex-husband. Who, incidentally, is a very smart cop, even if he is an asshole. He's out there right now looking for you. And mark my words—he won't let up until he hauls you in."
The vaguest hint of a smile crossed her pretty face.
"And despite all of his hard work, I've found you. Poetic justice, don't you think? Especially after he left me and tried to make me pay him alimony."
"Your ex-husband?"
The realization hit Malcolm like a club to the forehead.
Wait a minute. Is your ex-husband Detective Sam Baker? Wears a fedora?"
"The one and only."
"That man really is a Grade-A asshole."
Her balled fists dropped ever so slightly.
"Well, at least we agree on something," she said.
"Ma'am, I know that this may seem hard to believe, but I'm no killer. I'm being framed. And the real killer has kidnapped my wife and daughter. We're trying to save them."
"I've met your daughter," Tina said. "She's a good kid."
"Then help me save her."
The reporter lowered her fists a little more.
"I'll give you an exclusive. You'll be famous," Malcolm said. "But if you call in your news crew now, the cops will come get me, your ex-husband will be the hero, and my wife and daughter will die."
Malcolm's cell phone buzzed. He glanced at it reflexively.
"Who's that?" she said, pointing at the phone.
"A text message from a friend named Billy. Just about my only friend in the world right now, in fact. His brother was framed and his wife murdered by the same guy who has taken my wife and daughter. Billy's waiting for me at the dock. We've got to get to Tybee by three. That's the killer's deadline. I can't be late."