As the hours passed, Jason tried to get some writing done but made little progress. That evening, he brought a Big Mac meal back for the clerk with the long sideburns. With the television on in the background—it was always on now—he tried to write another chapter of his book but the words kept blending into one another. Finally, after spending far too long staring at the word muther and wondering why spell-check kept insisting it was misspelled, he closed his laptop. He sat on the bed, his back against the headboard, and watched blurbs about local news stories scroll across the bottom of CNN.
At 8:00 p.m. he called to say good night to Sophie and Max. Around 3:00 a.m., he fell asleep. He tossed and turned and twisted his sheets into knots, sleeping well past noon the next day and far into the afternoon.
In a nightmare, he killed Lyman Gooding again.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Behind the wheel of his 2013 Ford Transit panel van—which he drove when he didn’t want to travel in his conspicuous company vehicle—Cobb squinted through the windshield into the late-afternoon sun as he pulled into the lot of his fifth motel that afternoon. Having lived his entire life in nearby Beverly, only a few short miles from Jason Swike’s hometown of Swampscott, he knew there weren’t many motels in the area. He also knew that Jason was staying in one of them. And he knew the color of Jason’s Camry and its license plate number. It wouldn’t take long to find it, especially with Cobb having the luxury of owning his own business. While his employees were working the big job in Tewksbury, the boss was free to make finding Jason his sole occupation.
Fortunately, as expected, the list of local motels he’d called up on his smartphone wasn’t extensive. He cruised through the lot without seeing a red Camry and pulled back onto the street, heading for the next motel on his list.
He had a fever. At least it sure as hell felt that way. It had been too long since he’d done what he needed to do. He’d killed, but not the right kind of killing. Not the kind that quieted the dark whispers. The four men he’d slain over the past two weeks had done next to nothing for him. He’d already been overdue for the right kind of killing when he’d taken Jason, but then he held off, let Jason go, and with Barton dead and Jason refusing to take his place, Cobb was unable to find relief. His pain was a knife inside him now, making it hard to breathe. His Inside Dark hadn’t given him a moment’s peace in weeks. And it was getting worse every day.
He wasn’t stupid. Neither was he crazy enough to believe that his pain was actually in his stomach or his bones. Its cause wouldn’t show up in an MRI or CAT scan. It was in his head. But isn’t that where all pain truly is? Cut the connection between the shard of glass sticking out of your hand and the pain center in your brain and you wouldn’t feel the glass, right? That it was all in his mind didn’t make it any less real to him, any less agonizing to endure; he felt it nonetheless . . . and he found relief only when he did what he did, exactly as he needed to do it.
As he drove from motel to motel looking for Jason, his fever rose and the knife twisted inside him and he knew he needed to do it again—the right way—very soon.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Jason’s fourth day at the Sleep Easy was feeling depressingly similar to his first three, only by now he had completely given up trying to write. Other than making an occasional appearance at the reception desk to establish his whereabouts, he did nothing but lie on the bed and watch the news. He drifted off to sleep for a few minutes at one point and had yet another nightmare about killing Lyman Gooding while Sophie screamed and Ian Cobb and a host of others watched—the horror movie that played with little variation every time he slept now.
He kept thinking of an Edgar Allan Poe story he’d read in high school—“The Tell-Tale Heart”—in which someone kills and dismembers an old man, stuffs the body parts under the floorboards, then goes nuts and confesses because he can’t stop hearing the dead man’s heart beating below him. Jason wondered if his sins—hiring a hit man, allowing an innocent man to be murdered—could be seen on his face. Surely, the motel clerks, the cashiers at McDonald’s, the woman at the 7-Eleven register knew that he was guilty of something terrible. What Sophie thought she saw the night of the accident years ago—what Cobb, and possibly Briggs, saw when they looked at him now . . . hell, what Jason had begun to fear he might see in the mirror—was plain for all to see.
Late afternoon passed into early evening, and he began to dread the coming of yet another evening spent staring at the boob tube, waiting for a news story that never came, waiting for a night filled with long stretches of wakeful restlessness broken by snippets of sleep filled with nightmares of cold-blooded murder.
On his way to dinner, he left a message for Ben saying that he hoped the deal he was working on had gone through without a hitch. He ate in the dining room of a nearby Wendy’s—because he was getting really tired of McDonald’s—and on the way home he called Sophie, who said she was doing fine but thought that Geri might be getting a little tired of having company, even if she wouldn’t admit it.
“I hope to take care of things here soon,” Jason said.
“You’re being safe?”
“I am.”
“Okay. Here’s Max.”
While he was saying good night to his son—even though it was only 7:15 p.m., as Max was quick to point out, and his bedtime wasn’t until eight o’clock, which he also made quite clear—Jason’s phone vibrated in his hand, indicating that a text or an e-mail had come in. He would check it after his son finished telling him about the bumpy brown toad he’d found in Geri’s backyard. Jason listened, smiling his first smile in three days, and ended the call as he pulled in to the lot of the Sleep Easy.
As he climbed the stairs to his room, he checked the text. It had come from a number he didn’t recognize. It read, Balance due ASAP. It was signed simply RW.
Wheeler wasn’t supposed to contact him. He had never even given the hit man his number, though phone numbers aren’t terribly difficult to obtain. Sending the text was stupid and counter to their agreement and could cause serious trouble for Jason, but as he dug his room key from his pocket, he forgot the careless breach of protocol as the man’s news started to sink in.
Was it really over?
Was Cobb really dead?
He stepped into his room and closed the door behind him.
“You had to be on the second floor?”
Jason spun toward the voice. On the far side of the room, a man wearing denim coveralls sat on a chair, a black hood over his head. His hands were behind his back as if they were bound. Beside him stood Ian Cobb, an ugly knife in his hand.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
“Seriously, Jason, you couldn’t be on the first floor?” Cobb said. “I had to lug this guy up all those stairs. I’ve got a broken arm, for God’s sake.”
Cobb’s words were light and airy, almost playful, but his tone didn’t match. His voice was flat and emotionless. And he looked different to Jason, even worse than the last time he’d seen him. His face was drawn; he looked like a wax figure that had begun, ever so slightly, to melt. His empty, glassy eyes added to the effect.
“I can see your mind racing,” he said, “trying to decide what to do or say. Let’s start by me telling you not to do or say anything that might get this guy killed, okay? At least not yet. Though I think we both know he deserves it, don’t we?”
Jason had immediately recognized Ronald Wheeler’s denim coveralls beneath the hooded head.
“Clever, texting me from his phone. Is he alive?” Jason asked, afraid of the answer.
“For now. Where the hell did you get this guy? I saw him coming a mile away.”
He again took note of Cobb’s appearance, the sunken cheeks and glazed-over eyes in a face devoid of emotion.
“You don’t look good.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve had a bad day. Disappointing. Someone tried to kill me. That hurt my feelings, Jason.”
At first, Jason thought he was kidding in that twisted way that Co
bb had, but the look on his face, his tone of voice . . . he actually seemed to be serious.
“Why are you here, Cobb?”
“To give you one more chance. The very last one.”
“Because you want a partner.”
“No, I need a partner. I can’t explain it any better than I have. And don’t start in with that I’m not a killer crap. We both know that’s not true. Remember, I know what you have inside you. I may be the only person who does. I watched you kill Wallace without batting an eye. I saw your face after. No remorse. No regret. Just satisfaction, and though you might not have even known it was there, I saw naked desire . . . desire to do it again.”
“Bullshit.”
“Jason, you sent a hit man to murder me, which proves you’re not above killing in the proper circumstances, right? But maybe you don’t want to get your hands dirty. Fine. Hang back and watch me do it. Feed that thing inside you the way I feed mine. In a day or two, we’ll talk about it, reminisce a little, see what you think of it then, after the beasts have been fed.”
“Maybe I’m just not into killing people who don’t deserve it.”
“Every man I’ve ever met deserves it for one reason or another.”
“In your twisted opinion.”
“I’m the one with the knife. My opinion is the only one in the room that matters. And come to think of it, there is one person I know who doesn’t deserve to die.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“My father.”
“Really? He’s so special, did such a stellar job raising you, that he deserves to live?”
“You’ve got it wrong. He’s a piece of garbage who doesn’t deserve to live—but he’s not living right now, not really, because he’s a vegetable. What I said, though, was that he doesn’t deserve to die. His doctor is begging me to let it happen. His nurses, too. They imply it’s inhumane to keep him alive in the state he’s in. And I agree. That’s the whole point. I hope he’s suffering, lying there in a state of endless mental torture. That’s what I meant when I said he doesn’t deserve to die. Death is too good for him.”
Jason shook his head. How do you respond to that kind of cruel insanity? “Seriously,” he said, “you look sick.”
“Well, I feel sick. My brother’s darkness, his pain—my pain now—it’s like cancer. It’s eating me. I need a release. And I need it to be the way it was, with Johnny and Wallace.”
“I don’t mean this to be an insult, I swear, but is there even a description in psychology books of what’s wrong with you?”
“Actually, one of my early victims was a psychology minor in college. Before I killed him, I asked what he thought about me. He said my need to be watched while I kill demonstrates some form of exhibitionism. I guess that makes some sense.”
“Yeah, well, I think he was just scratching the surface, Cobb. You need help.”
“So help me.”
“You know what I mean.”
Cobb sighed. A sorrow came to his face so profound that Jason might have pitied him under almost any other circumstances. “Let’s try something different.”
Without taking his eyes off Jason, he opened the door behind him and reached into the bathroom. He tugged at something unseen and a man wearing only a black hood and a pair of saggy underwear shuffled into the room. His arms were bound in front of him with silver-gray duct tape. Jason heard his rapid, panicked breathing. Cobb gave him a small push and he stumbled forward three steps before bumping into the bed.
“Sit down,” Cobb said.
He did as instructed. Cobb now stood with one hand on the shoulder of the man on the bed, and his other hand, the one holding the knife, resting on the shoulder of the hooded man in the chair. Jason noticed now that Cobb was wearing light-blue latex gloves.
Cobb pulled the hood off the man on the bed, revealing the terrified face of Ronald Wheeler. Tape covered his mouth. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Jason immediately looked at the hooded man in the denim coveralls. The back of his neck began to tingle.
“I think you should ask for your money back, Jason. What do you think we should do with him? Kill him?”
At that, Wheeler shook his head violently and tried to stand. Cobb pushed him back onto the bed.
“Let him go,” Jason said.
“He’d turn both of us in to the police.”
“No, he won’t. He’d have to reveal his involvement, which he’d never do.”
Wheeler nodded vigorously.
“Ah, why should we believe you?” Cobb asked, looking down at Wheeler. “You’re a hit man, for God’s sake.”
“I believe him,” Jason said.
“Well, I don’t, so we’re not letting him go. But let’s move things along a bit.”
With that, he tore the hood from the head of the other man. Even though Jason had begun to suspect it, his heart stuttered when he saw Ben there. His head was down. He was unconscious. Or was he . . .
“Tell me he’s alive.”
“Two for two,” Cobb said. “It’s your lucky night so far. I gave him a pretty hefty dose, so he’ll sleep for a while yet.”
Jason saw red. He took two quick steps forward, and in a flash the knife was at his friend’s neck, the point making an indentation in the skin. It would take little more than a flick of Cobb’s wrist to draw blood, barely more than that to slice the neck wide open. There was something in Cobb’s eyes now, something resembling resignation, and Jason didn’t doubt that he’d kill Ben. So he backed up two steps.
“Good decision,” Cobb said.
“That was you outside the Green Dragon that night. You followed me there, then followed Ben home later.”
“Yeah. I was lucky to find him home. I’ve checked his apartment every night for the past few days. This is the first night he’s been home all week.”
“This isn’t necessary.”
“Yeah, it is. You weren’t interested in saving the life of strangers the other night, so I thought maybe you’d feel differently about saving the life of a friend. Here’s how this is going to work: I’m going to cut Ronnie here into little pieces, and I’ll tell you everything I plan to do as I go along—slice by slice, stab by stab—and if you don’t watch me, I’ll do it to your friend instead. Understand?”
Holy hell.
“You’re going to force me to watch?” Jason said. “That’s not going to work for you. You told me that. You need it to be voluntary.”
Cobb brought the knife close to Wheeler’s face, positioning the point just under the man’s eye. A tear ran down the blade. “Maybe,” he said, “but let’s find out for sure.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
“Okay,” Cobb said, holding a fistful of Wheeler’s hair with one hand and the knife with the other. “Here we go. Watch me cut out Ronnie’s eye.”
“I thought your thing was breaking bones,” Jason said quickly, anything to keep Cobb talking instead of stabbing or slicing. “Because of Johnny, right? Your uncle breaking his bones?”
With his legs shaking, either from adrenaline or fear, Jason briefly—very briefly—considered trying again to rush Cobb. He’d go right for his knife hand. But the blade was sharp and would take only a second to do permanent damage, first to Wheeler and then, no doubt, to him. And then to Ben. He had no choice. So he looked away.
“Breaking bones?” Cobb said. “That was my thing, yeah. But if I want the world to keep thinking that Crackerjack is dead, I have no choice but to mix it up a bit. So maybe I’ll try some things with cutlery and see how it goes. Now, eyes front please, Jason.”
Jason kept looking away. His eyes found an ugly framed watercolor on the wall above the television. A street scene. He couldn’t bring himself to watch Wheeler lose an eye.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. If you don’t look, I’ll do it to your sleeping buddy here instead. Now, watch me.”
Reluctantly, Jason started to turn toward Cobb but, at the last moment, looked at the watercolor again.
“You’re just not listenin
g, Jason.” Cobb’s voice was louder now. A little agitated. On a hunch, Jason turned his head farther away.
“Damn it,” Cobb said. “Watch me. You know you want to. The thing inside you wants to. Admit it.”
As angry and frustrated as Cobb was getting, he hadn’t cut anyone yet. That was interesting.
“You’re wrong about me, Cobb. There’s nothing inside me that wants to do or see these things. And there’s nothing inside you. You’re just crazy.”
Cobb sucked in a deep breath. “Have it your way. Someone’s about to lose an eye.”
Jason’s heart skipped a beat but he kept his eyes averted. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done. He waited for a wet slicing sound. All he heard, though, were Cobb’s deep breaths and Wheeler’s little mewling sounds.
“Last chance, Jason.”
“I’m not going to be your audience, Cobb. I’m not going to give you whatever it is you think you need from me.”
He took a deep breath and walked toward the door. Remembering something Cobb had told him, he added a slight limp to his walk. Nothing obvious. Just a subtle hitch in his stride.
Cobb started to speak, faltered, then asked, “Where are you going?”
Remembering what he’d read about Johnny Cobb in his yearbook and obituary, Jason played another hunch and said, “Outside to look at the stars. I’ve always loved the stars.”
He had reached the door and was halfway out when Cobb finally said, in a hushed voice, “What did you say?”
Without turning around, he replied, “I’m going out to look at the stars. There’s no moon tonight and you can see more stars than usual.” Doubling down on his hunch—perhaps tripling, at this point—he added, “Wish I had my high-speed camera. I bet it’s a great sky for pictures.”
Before Cobb could respond, Jason left the motel room, closing the door behind him.
Outside, he bent over at the waist, put his hands on his knees, and sucked in a huge lungful of air. When he blew it out his head felt light, as though it were floating inches above his body. What had he done? What was happening in the room behind him? He resisted the urge to peer between the window curtains. Instead, he walked a few feet away and sat with his back against the wall, his knees drawn up.
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