The Storm Murders

by John Farrow

  He observed them, shifting his gaze from one to the other, anticipating their praise.

  “Of course,” he continued, “from time to time we have to protect our growers. So-called honest cops might arrest them, so we take them into witness protection. Or we have to show that we’re doing our job. We get our people to inform on their neighbors, who the mob controls, then we have to take them out of the operation even as our operation increases, because we’ve now taken over new fields from the mob. But you see my problem. It’s a chess game, that’s one thing. And some of that comes back on me. I have to play it five moves ahead or I’ll be behind. So I have people in witness protection who know me as a special agent in the FBI who has, shall we say, complicated ethics. So that leaves me with no choice but to go back through that field and cull the chaff from the wheat, so to speak. I know that sounds ass backward, but that’s what has to be done on occasion. It’s safer.”

  Émile could tell that Sandra was disinterested and losing hope. He could not allow that to happen. He had to buoy her up with his own enthusiasm for Dreher’s story.

  “But the Lumens, Rand? Did they fit into that scheme? Up here in Canada?”

  Dreher clicked his fingers. “You’re right, Émile. Different scenario entirely. By this point, somebody is noticing inside the Bureau that not only are we losing informants—usually they think our witness protection people are informants, and usually we do manipulate things to make it look that way—but we’re losing informants who were attached to me. We’re losing my informants. So I get to investigate, but also I have to find a way to take this off my shoulders.”

  “It’s a tangled web we weave, Rand,” Émile encouraged him.

  “Call it a web,” Dreher said, as if missing the familiarity of the remark entirely, “but for sure my operations created a pattern and that pattern was growing visible, for those with eyes to see. People associated with my work in the war against drugs and in my geographic concentration were being eliminated. One by one, spread out over time. Oh, I was clever in creating the storm motif, this wandering serial killer who struck in the aftermath of a strong wind or a quaking earth, but, nonetheless, the idea persisted that a pattern was forming that revolved around me. So, guess what I did?”

  Cinq-Mars obliged him. “You struck outside your parameters.”

  “Precisely. I blurred the pattern. That’s where you fit in. Lovely of you to come down to New Orleans, for example. To give yourself that exposure. Meet the troops. Too bad about Vira. She was an up-and-comer, but the connection, the bond that she was forming with you, and you guys finding out that the killer was a claims adjustor—” He performed a pantomime of shivering. “Too close for comfort. She had to go. And now you. Then I’ll solve these murders, Vira’s and yours, and dear Sandra’s, and that won’t be difficult, it just means shooting the killer before he gets to talk to anybody, then we’ll trace his movements after the fact to prove his guilt. Brilliant, all around. Puts me in the clear inside the Bureau. Our market share continues. Life goes on. Everything is put behind us. Hell, even your dog lives to die a natural death. What more can anyone ask for?”

  That Émile managed, somehow, an incomprehensible smile, transfixed Dreher’s attention.

  “Do you know what I enjoy the most about killing people,” he asked them. “There are many aspects I relish, but do you know what gives me the deepest, most gratifying satisfaction?”

  “Of that, I have no clue,” Cinq-Mars whispered.

  “You should know killers, Émile, if you want to be a cop when you grow up. Allow me to educate you. To be honest, there are many moments I love. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy it when the wife cuts her husband’s ring finger off. So much for that marriage! Ha ha. That’s what I say. It’s nearly orgasmic. But the moment I love though is when I see hope dissipate, when hope leaves the eyes to be replaced by despair. When I see them die before they are dead. I just so get off on that.” He resorted to his Scotch and that seemed to elicit a quieter, more philosophical moment. “You know, the phenomena has been studied. In a Russian movie theater, for instance, many hostages looked like they were dead already. But some didn’t, they clung to hope. Those who survived remarked on this. Once the shooting started and the bombs went off, it was those who looked dead ahead of time who ended up dead. Those who did not, did not. It’s an amazing phenomena about life and death, how one informs the other. Those who were going to die knew they were going to die. I love to see my people die before I’ve even touched them.”

  In a way, Cinq-Mars noticed, Dreher had accomplished what he himself was trying to do, sparking Sandra back to life. She was not willing to yield her spirit to this mad man.

  “But you two. Look at you. Go on! The two of you. Look at each other!”

  Émile and Sandra did as they were instructed. They each noticed the other’s pain, which instantly intensified their own suffering, as if that was even possible, and yet they each took strength and solace one from the other.

  “Do you see what I see?” Dreher demanded.

  They looked back at him.

  “Neither one of you is dead yet. Why not?”

  This time, when Émile and Sandra shared a look, they smiled. The gesture was faint and unremarkable, and not meant to be provocative, but it was there, perhaps only in the other’s eyes, perhaps only for themselves to see.

  “So how come? You are both about to die. You have no hope. Stop dreaming in Technicolor. No god and no angel and no flying hero from any police department anywhere is about to rescue you. So forget about it.”

  “We’ll get there. We’ll lose hope. But first, explain New Orleans to me.”

  “What about it?”

  “The kidnapping.”

  Dreher was only too happy to gloat. “The other side, Émile. Blame them. The people who are after me who don’t know it’s me they’re after, just an amorphous ghost—but maybe they were thinking it’s me, I can’t be sure—they’re the ones. They kidnapped your girl. You tell me what they got out of that. Nothing, it would appear, because both of you are about to die and I’m still up to no good! So say your prayers and let’s get on with this. If you’re not going to give me the satisfaction I’m looking for, fuck it, I’ll do without. But sorry, guys, I must be on my way. Émile. You first.”

  And just like that, he aimed his pistol at his head.

  “Oh!” Sandra called out. Then yelled another desperate sound.

  “There’s things you don’t know!” Émile bellowed. “You won’t be getting away soon.”

  “Sorry, Émile. Can’t talk your way out of this one. Don’t disappoint me. Take it like a man. If you insist on being optimistic, grant me that at last. Your integrity. Let me blow that away with your brains.”

  “Help is on the way! That’s why I’ve been stalling you! That’s why we have hope! Everything you’ve told us is theory, so who can convict you? You’re still in the clear, Rand. But this, this you can’t walk away from.”

  “Nice try, but you lie, and now you die.”

  “My husband doesn’t lie!” Sandra shouted out.

  “Lovely sentiment, my dear. But sentiment holds no water with me. Is that a surprise to you?”

  “Were you recording us?”

  He looked at her. “Recording?”

  “Could you hear what we were saying?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “She’s right,” Émile said, catching on.

  “About what?”

  “I used code,” Émile said. “Bill Mathers is my old partner. He knows my language.”

  Dreher released a plaintive sigh, then rubbed his eyes. “As much as I love to see the light go out early, I really hate it when people start this relentless, useless pleading.”

  “I can prove it to you,” Sandra told him.

  “How? Prove what?”

  “Do you know what Émile told Bill? You were listening?”

  “He gave him instructions on a shortcut home. So?”

  “Bill Mathers
,” Émile answered, “has lived here all his life. He doesn’t need directions home. And the directions I gave him are bogus.”

  “You’re pathetic. You’re making that up.”

  Sandra yelled, she screamed near the top of her lungs: “I can prove it!”

  He was shocked for a moment, but that insidious grin arose again. “Okay, lady. Go ahead.”

  “I’ll tell you what Émile said means. In a different room. In the kitchen. Then we’ll come back here and he’ll explain it himself. You’ll see. It’ll be exactly the same thing.”

  They stared each other down a few moments before Dreher addressed Émile. “I got to say, you married a lady with guts. That’s good to see. All right. Sandra, get up. Into the kitchen we go. Émile, I’m going to tie you to that chair. If this is some sort of pathetic plan, just remember that I’m under no obligation to stick to a script today. I can make you pay before you die, and you won’t want that. If your wife pisses me off, then she pays, and I’ll let you live to see all that in its fullest glory.”

  He put down the pistol briefly and lashed Émile’s wrists to the hardback chair, yet neither of them could do a blessed thing. Dreher then clutched Sandra’s forearm so forcibly that she gasped. He yanked her forward. He pulled her with him into the kitchen to listen to her explanation with the door closed.

  But instead she pleaded for a bathroom visit.

  She squeezed her thighs together and hopped on one foot, then the other.

  “Please don’t humiliate me. Let me pee.”

  “Fuck!” he hollered.

  “I’m scared! It’s the excitement. Let me pee!”

  He opened the door to the living room again. “Don’t move, Émile! I’ll be checking on you.”

  Cinq-Mars didn’t bother pointing out that he was unable to move, not while attached to his chair.

  Roughly, Dreher pushed Sandra ahead of him down to the powder room. He went in first, did a quick scan of the medicine cabinet. Pills, floss, ointments, gauze, Band-Aids. No razors, no scissors, nothing to be construed as lethal. He stepped out of the room.

  “You’re not closing the door,” he told her.

  “You’re not watching,” she told him.

  “Of course not. I’m a gentleman.”

  “Undo my hands.”

  He studied her. He saw her predicament. She had to undress. She hopped some more.

  “Turn around,” he instructed her, and when she did so he untied her wrists.

  He then retired to a spot in the kitchen when he could keep an eye on the door and on Cinq-Mars by shifting his glance. He heard the tinkle, and when the toilet flushed he went back to the room, gave it a visual inspection as Sandra adjusted her clothing and checked her hands and pockets.

  He pulled Sandra back into the kitchen and checked that Cinq-Mars had remained still. Then he closed the door and told her to quietly say what she wanted to say, and after telling him he tied her wrists again in front of her.

  His eyes bore into her. Then he opened the door and signaled for her to go through. In the living room, he shoved Sandra back down into a chair.

  Despite the roughhouse handling, Émile could tell that he had changed. Worry had crept in. A darkness behind the eyes, perhaps a premonition of the very same darkness that he’d been waiting for, and not seeing, in their eyes, was now evident in his.

  “Talk, Émile. Explain your code. Not that you don’t die either way.”

  Sandra’s gambit was his last prevailing hope. “I told Bill to go east of Aldgate. In the old days, that’s what I told him when it was time to draw our weapons. It comes from a Sherlock Holmes teleplay—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard that already.” Dreher drew a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck, in distress.

  “‘Always carry a firearm east of Aldgate, Watson,’ Sherlock said. Bill took it to be code. I can pretty much guarantee that. So you see, we haven’t given up hope because we know the cops are coming and probably in force. Your best bet, your only bet, is to get out now, then you’ll only have our stories to defend against in court. Otherwise, you kill us now, and you’re the dead man.”

  He seemed to be considering his options. He went to the front door and looked out. He sprung the lock. He crossed to a side window and checked that it was locked. But it would be in winter. He walked though the living room, checking on his captors, warned them with a wave of his gun, and went through the kitchen to the back door and locked that. He searched in that direction. Nothing alarmed him out there. He returned to the living room.

  “This does change things a little,” he agreed. “Sandra, you’re getting out of the finger-cutting, you’ll be pleased to know. If you don’t mind, I’m going to borrow riding tack from the stables and mount one of your horses. I’m an old kid cowboy from Missouri, you know. Riding a horse can’t be much different than riding a bicycle, once you know how. That gets me as far as the riding trails out back. My GPS will guide me out of there. Then I take the redeye to Birmingham. Technically, I’m already on a flight to Jacksonville, but that’s not really me, as you can see. Either way, I get to investigate Vira’s murder tomorrow morning, and I guess that’s when I’ll hear about yours. So. Short and sweet. It’s been nice knowing you.”

  Sandra emitted a sound, one that Émile had never heard, and both men looked across at her. “There, Émile,” Dreher said, “do you see? There it goes. All hope. We’re back in the swamp. I love the swamp. You see? Her light’s gone out. She’s already dead and I haven’t even touched her yet.”

  But Sandra was not going to tolerate that verdict or at least not give him the satisfaction. “Fuck you, you fucker!”

  “That mouth!”

  Cinq-Mars tried to kick him. A futile effort. Dreher went around behind him. Cinq-Mars tried to twist around but there was no point. He felt the barrel of the gun against the back of his head.

  Dreher leaned in and whispered in Émile’s ear. “Personal aggrandizement, Émile. That’s why you’re dying today. But I like you. So I’ll tell you something else. It’s also political. So many of us have plans. For those plans, we do a little fund-raising on the side. So you see, you’re dying for a cause. My cause. You’re not dying in vain. Oh, just wanted you to know.”

  “You bastard.”

  “You fucked up,” Dreher said, as if wanting to console him. “I know, it’s hard to stomach. But look, don’t feel bad. So did I. Today is but one example. Shall I let you in on a touch of irony, Émile? I never counted on that big snowfall. When I arrived at the Lumens’ place, one footprint was the same as any other. When the snow covered everything, that’s when I knew I was in trouble.”

  “The cops would think you were still in the house,” Cinq-Mars whispered.

  “That’s right. Adele Lumen not dying instantly was one mistake, but I didn’t count on the implications of the storm. Normally, they’d never think to look for me. They’d just call it in. So you see, I’m always trying to improve my practice. I learned new things today. So thanks. I promise, Émile, I’ll do better next time.”

  He straightened up. Shoved Émile’s head forward with the gun’s muzzle.

  “Ready, lady?” Dreher said to Sandra, although he wasn’t looking in her direction. “Say goodbye, then watch him die.”

  The shot was fired. Sandra released an unholy scream to drown out that noise, to explode that final terror.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  Funereal, grim, the procession of five black cars turned off the county highway to traverse the pockmarked road on up to the farmhouse. A thaw transformed the drive into a series of puddles and ponds and made it particularly bumpy where frost heaves rippled the surface. Sandra Cinq-Mars stepped out onto her front porch to watch the cars and SUVs arrive. She was surprised, although only briefly, that she recognized one of the first men to emerge from his vehicle. The fellow buttoned up his black suit jacket and exchanged a glance and a nod with her. He stood out as strikingly familiar.

  She’d know that face anywhe
re. She just never expected to see it again and not in a million years on her own property. He was one of two men, both in their fifties, who approached the porch and came up the steps.

  Not him, but the other man, extended his hand and said, “Mrs. Cinq-Mars, on behalf of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, may I convey to you our sincere regret for all that has transpired.”

  Her eyes remained reddened from crying jags that in the last day were finally becoming less frequent. She replied cordially, “Thank you. Won’t you come inside?” Taking note of her front yard, where more and more men stepped out of the vehicles, she added, “My goodness, so many of you!”