Forgive Me, Alex

by Lane Diamond

This assumed that the cops didn't pick him up and follow him, in which case I'd have to leave it to them and trust in the outcome, as much as I hated the idea. I believed they'd set up at the southernmost end of Mohawk, though I couldn't be certain. A vehicle there looked like an unmarked police car, but I couldn't see anyone through the windows. It was too dark.

  Would Norton be able to spot them? Would he make them for cops? Nothing I could do about that.

  No matter. I couldn't pull myself away from this. If there was any chance at all, I had to stay. Diana was all that mattered. I could lose one more night of sleep.

  I stood behind a tree in the woodlands along Pioneer, about seven feet inside the edge and well hidden, where Norton wouldn't spot me even if he looked in my direction. Presumably, he'd look for a vehicle and not for someone on foot, which had been the foundation for Special Agent Jackson's idea.

  Tomorrow night, one of his men would be here. This was a one-night deal for me.

  I wore the garb Master Komura had provided me, though I wished I'd not worn the jika-tabi, the boots with the thin soles through which I felt every little rock and bump. What was I supposed to do, scale walls like Spiderman? Perhaps I'd hang by my feet and strike with my sword, or perform the other ridiculous ninja movie acts that always made Master and me laugh.

  I'd pick up some black tennis shoes for next time. Nonetheless, I remained a mere shadow of movement as darkness drew complete. All but the properly trained eye would look past me, and Norton possessed no such eye.

  The police might be another matter, but....

  The night crawled forward and laid a five-hundred-pound web over me, as though I'd just run the Boston Marathon, swam the English Channel, climbed Mount Everest, and spent four grueling, sweaty hours naked with Farrah Fawcett.

  Lack of sleep completed my exhaustion, yet the thought of Diana sustained me. A Thermos of coffee—another one of Frank's good ideas—helped. Maybe. A little.

  I checked my watch: 1:15. "Damn, I need to take a leak."

  I watered a tree and thought back to four days ago, when I'd last seen Diana on that most spectacular and special of nights. Could she still be alive? I'd had doubts since the beginning, but as there'd been no sign of her body, I clung to the smallest hope. What Jackson had said earlier about serial killers and what drove them reinforced my nagging doubt, but Norton did appear to be fixated on Diana.

  A glimmer of hope.

  It tortured me to imagine what he'd done to her if she was still alive, and it made me want to kill him all over again—and again.

  Whatever Norton had done, as long as she was alive and we could be together in the end, we could overcome anything. I just wanted to hold her again, to kiss her, to breathe in her essence and hear her laugh. Our love was too strong; nothing could rend it apart. Love like this was the true purpose of our existence. Without it, only the search for it made life worth living.

  I couldn't give up on her. I mustn't give up.

  I'd been thinking of Alex too. With all the excitement regarding Diana, he'd been lost in the shuffle. I should have thought of him more, as I should have been there to save him from an ending he should never have had to endure. Dr. Singer had said he'd felt no physical pain. Still, what must have gone through his mind? How lonely, frightened and desperate he must have been.

  I choked down the lump in my throat. Damn thing was showing up so often these days, I should charge it rent.

  It killed me to think of what had happened to Alex. The image—the worst possible horror flick from my imagination—stabbed an ice pick into my heart. I'd never been one for tears, but every time I thought of the Hoopster, it took every ounce of determination to hold them at bay. He'd been my little brother, not my son, yet I understood the heartbreak of a parent who'd lost a child.

  Dad, I'm sorry. I'll try to understand. I'll try to help.

  The night breezes provided cool comfort, a break from the season's premature hot weather. I poured myself another spot of coffee to help keep me awake. I probably wouldn't make it to school tomorrow. Who cared? With the FBI taking over tomorrow night, I needed this one last day, and then—

  Wait, what's this?

  Perhaps the night shadows played tricks on me. Perhaps my own mind, physically exhausted and emotionally wracked, imagined ghosts in the darkness.

  I gulped down the coffee and screwed the lid back on top of the Thermos, and waited for another sign that the movement I'd seen was real.

  There it is!

  Someone was walking away from the Norton house along the back property lines. He headed away from Mohawk and toward Pioneer Road, and appeared to be dressed in black and wearing a ski mask—difficult to tell for sure.

  I stole a quick glance back at the Norton house; his van remained in the driveway.

  I looked south down the street, and the surveillance car remained dark and quiet—no sign of movement. In fact, from that location it was unlikely they'd see where Norton walked, if it was Mitchell. It must be.

  He moved up out of the grass along the property lines that separated the back yards of the houses on Mohawk from those on Wildwood Road, and it appeared he'd walk west on Pioneer.

  I stalked through the trees as if walking on glass, a few feet deeper in from Pioneer to ensure that I'd go unseen even if Norton heard me. Any sound would be minor, the nocturnal wanderings of a rabbit or a raccoon, and I'd freeze at the first flash of sound. This underbrush provided some cover, but it might be impossible to walk through without making any sound at all.

  It helped that he was in a hurry to reach his destination. It also helped that crickets screamed the night away. The best symphony ever.

  Norton approached Getzelman Terrace and a small park on the left. I knew that park well because a stone fountain there offered the clearest, coolest water that perpetually bubbled out of the ground. On a hot summer day, nothing beat it. For the life of me, I couldn't remember the name of that little park.

  Who gives a shit? Keep your head on the mission, Tony!

  He stopped to look around, standing alongside a tree for about thirty seconds. I began to worry that he'd heard me, when he turned to the right and headed.... There was no street there. Would he go into the woods and up the ridge?

  It hit me: Suicide Trail. That's what we kids called the steep drainage ditch covered in loose gravel, which we often rode down on our bicycles. If one were careless, his reward might be a broken arm or, at the very least, skinned up knees and—

  The mission, Tony. Keep your head on the mission. Damn it, I'm nervous.

  He climbed Suicide Trail, which would bring him out on Geringer at the end of Cermak, only a block from where I'd parked the Cadillac. I slipped to the edge of the trees and looked up just as he crested the top and turned left on Geringer.

  The Cadillac sat about two hundred yards to the right.

  I started up behind him, keeping to the left edge and away from the gravel to remain quiet. At the top, I peered around the last tree.

  He'd crossed to the other side of the road and stopped alongside a pick-up truck that faced west.

  What in hell was he doing? He dug in his pocket and—

  Holy shit, he's opening the door to the truck and climbing inside.

  He was smarter than I'd given him credit for.

  I bolted east toward the Cadillac as he started the truck and pulled off to the west. I sprinted to the car and started it after he'd disappeared. I left the lights off and took off after him, careful not to come too close to him.

  He drove past the cemetery to Cary Road, turned west to Highway 31, and then north toward Crystal Lake.

  Though I couldn't let him discover me, I must stay close enough to keep him in sight. Frank had taken the time to explain to me the fine art of tailing another vehicle. I had no idea how he knew about such things, though my suspicions were growing by the hour. A little practice would have been nice, but there'd been no time.

  "Just use your head," Frank had said.

  I c
ould do that.

  No other vehicles appeared in the vicinity—most importantly, no additional tails. It would have been easier to remain hidden if there'd been more traffic to mingle with, yet the knowledge that we were alone comforted me. I could leave the lights off.

  I had no idea where Norton was going, or if Diana was even alive. I could only hope and follow. Nothing more to do. Yet.

  I breathed easy, focused like a riflescope on Norton far ahead of me. Despite the distance between us, his lights shone clearly enough that I'd know where he turned, when he turned. It helped to know the area so well, and the occasional streetlight, combined with a fair moon and a clear night, meant I could see well enough to drive.

  Still no other traffic appeared, though on this often-busy street that could change, even at this hour, so I had to—

  His brake lights flashed, but no turn signal. Was he aware of me back here? Was he waiting for me to approach? I let up on the gas and allowed the Caddy to drift, and just as my panic rose, he turned off to the right a few blocks ahead.

  "Wait a minute, there's no road there."

  Nervous again, but also committed, I drifted forward with the lights still off. I came to the general area where he'd turned, and slowed down to locate him. I used the emergency brake so my brake lights wouldn't flash.

  A small dirt track led to the right, running back along a farm field. If I wasn't mistaken, it led into the old gravel pits where we often hung out during the summer.

  I continued, but saw no sign of his truck. "Where in hell are you, Norton?"

  The darkness here, where no streetlights shone and no pavement reflected the moonlight, made it tough. I strained to see with my chin practically resting on the steering wheel. Sweat swam on my upper lip. My stomach quivered.

  Taillights flared in the distance; he must have been in a dip in the landscape. He wound up and slightly to the right, about two hundred yards ahead.

  Driving this road was like skiing moguls on one-ton metal skis. Frank's poor Caddy. I alternated between the gas pedal and the emergency brake. Hard to believe anything but a farm tractor had traveled here for a long time, aside from Norton.

  I rose out of the dip, and brake lights flashed again, ahead and to my right, and then vanished. He must have crested another hill.

  "Come on, Norton, where are we going?"

  I stopped before the crest, got out of the car, and jogged up to peer over the top, careful to remain low. Norton walked around the truck about fifty yards ahead, and pulled things from the front passenger seat. He gave no indication that he'd spotted me.

  Though Frank's Cadillac hummed quietly, I ran back and turned off the engine.

  Back at the top of the hill, I watched as Norton carried something to a small shed of some sort. He fiddled with something on the door, perhaps a lock—impossible to tell from here.

  "You have to get closer, Tony," I whispered to myself, then gazed down at my shinobi shozoku and nodded. "No worries."

  Several trees offered cover, and I darted from one to another, keeping low to the ground. The tall wild grass provided additional cover as I drew closer.

  A light flared in the shed, and he reappeared and grabbed something else from the front of the truck. Looked like plastic bags.

  Christ! Why does he need plastic bags?

  I dropped down and spider-crawled toward the back of the shed. Once again, the rough ground stabbed through the thin, spiked soles of my jika-tabi. I ignored it.

  The twenty-foot-square shed looked to be at least a century old.

  How did you find this place, Norton?

  I paused behind an ancient oak a few yards from the shed. A faint but foul odor, reminiscent of a sewer or septic tank, assaulted me.

  Holy crap!

  A voice invaded the darkness, but too far away for me to understand. I risked creeping right to the rear wall of the shed, and listened.

  I recognized Norton's voice. "Looks like you pissed all over the place. Poor thing, you have been alone for the past thirty-six hours. I'll bet you're thirsty and hungry too. Tough shit! That's what you get for being a bitch."

  Bitch? He has a woman in there! God, please let it be Diana.

  "I'm surprised you didn't shit yourself while you were at it." He laughed. "Whatever. The Reaper has returned and he's told me what to do."

  He paused, and the sound of a bag crinkling sent lightning bolts up my spine.

  "The police are onto me. Do you believe that? Your fucking boyfriend somehow figured things out. That's right, your little boy Tony knows about me, though I don't know how the fuck he managed it."

  It's Diana! Thank God!

  "Who gives a fuck? I had big plans for us, you know. We were gonna be royalty, the king and queen of pain and misery, but you fucked it up. You had to be a prissy little baby. You had to call me vile names and attack me. You stupid bitch, you have no idea what you've given up, but I think you have a good idea of what will happen now."

  It's show time.

  I needed to get his attention somehow, and isolate him from Diana to minimize the risk to her. A bull-rush might get her killed.

  I felt along the ground for a rock and found two suitable to my purpose.

  He continued his rant. "Do you think it's better to die? Don't you know that I would have taken care of you? You were gonna be my queen. I would never have hurt you, but no, no, no. You ruined it! I'll tell you one thing though—I will have my way with you this time, and I'll keep you gagged so you can't fuck with my head. What do you think of that? Awe, that's right, go ahead and cry, you little fuckin' baby."

  You sonuvabitch! I'll kill you!

  I crept to the edge of the shed, and positioned myself where I had an easy aim at his truck.

  "You stupid bitch, your tears don't mean a fuckin' thing. And you know what? You smell like shit, but I don't care. I'm gonna fuck your brains out. What do you think of that? Ooh, more tears. You're breaking my heart, stupid bitch! Boo hoo!"

  I threw the smallest pebble at Norton's truck and it made a definite sound, but he apparently didn't hear it over the sound of his own voice.

  Shit! What kind of weapons do you have in there, asshole?

  "You know, after I have my way with you, then I'm really gonna have fun. That's right, I'm gonna work on you like I did on Danny-Boy and Jacque-Baby. Remember that, you stupid bitch? You remember the things I do with these tools? How do you think that will feel? The first thing I'll do is cut those rock-hard nipples right off your tits."

  I threw the second stone much harder, and it crashed against the truck.

  "What the hell was that?"

  PART 8 – Hunter and Prey

  Chapter 54 – June 19, 1995: Mitchell Norton

  Shades of 1978, the police are all over me and I gotta assume they're watching me again, though I ain't seen no sign of them. Maybe they've learned some things since then. Has the Algonquin Police Department learned how to conduct surveillance in anonymity?

  Shit! Anything is possible.

  Besides, the FBI might be doing all the legwork. They may be better at it, and of course, lovely Linda is on the case. What's going on between her and Tony Hooper? I'd swear they have a relationship in the works. I'd love to get my hands on her; she's smokin' hot, but she'd also be the second of that fuckin' Hooper's women that I destroyed.

  Wouldn't that be precious?

  It's so easy to hate my old nemesis again. He appears over and over, like the proverbial bad penny. If that ain't a good reason to hate him, then no good reason exists. The real question is what I'll do about it. There have been three new murders in Algonquin. The thought of him as victim number four is positively exquisite, but the authorities are ever watchful. I don't wanna give them a reason to watch me more closely.

  There's nothing to tie me to those three victims, the authorities' assumptions be damned, but Hooper is another story. He's the Elliott Ness to my Al Capone, the Batman to my Riddler, the Roadrunner to my Wile E. Coyote. There's too much history
between us.

  I can't escape the fuckwad.

  Starbucks is crowded today. I came to finish the last forty pages of Stephen King's book, The Dark Half. Maybe I should write a book, since finding a decent job will to be next to impossible. It could be an autobiography: My Life and Times (and Wicked Ways), or maybe I'm a New Man, or A Year in the Life – 1978 (The Voice of the Reaper). I should have thought of it sooner. I mean, shit, any knucklehead can be a writer, right?

  I get a large cup—excuse me, 'venti'—of their Sumatra Extra Bold coffee, and grab a seat at a small table. Unfortunately, two irritating kids occupy the armchairs. I'll keep an eye on them and make a dash for it if one becomes available.

  An hour later, two things have happened: I've finished the book, and my ass and legs have gone to sleep on this miserable wooden chair. I squirm around for a minute to get the blood circulating again, but I gotta stand to accomplish that, which proves tricky with dead legs.

  I consider buying a second cup of coffee, and glance at the armchairs. I'd forgotten about them while finishing the book, but my numbed legs have brought them back into focus.

  Excellent, one is empty. Occupying the other one is—

  Are you fuckin' kidding me! You couldn't stay away, could you?

  This may be one of Hooper's regular hangouts—perfectly innocent—yet given our history, my instincts say otherwise. Although I haven't spotted anyone, I've battled this suspicion that someone's been watching me the past couple days—like invisible mosquitoes gnawing on the back of my head.

  What the hell, I may as well have a little fun with it.

  I snag another cup of coffee and stroll over to sit in the available armchair. I avoid eye contact with Hooper, as though unaware of his presence, and pretend to read the book. I wanna let him have the first word or make the first move. Afterwards, depending on how crazy he gets, a call to my lawyer may be in order. I seriously want to nail this fucker.

  It's been several minutes and still he hasn't uttered a single sound. If I keep grinding my teeth like this, one monster of a headache is gonna knock my dick in the dirt. It's difficult to resist the temptation, but I still ain't looked at him. Maybe he won't notice a quick glance.