Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  Quickly, Jack redialed the Cooks in Charlotte.

  “Hello?” It was General Cook.

  Jack swallowed hard. “Hello, General?”

  “Jack?”

  “Hi, sir. Yes, it’s Jack. I’m sorry to be calling so late, but—”

  “Jack? Is anything wrong? Is Rachel all right?”

  Is Rachel all right? Then, that means…. “General, have you heard from Rachel tonight?” Jack’s insides were turning.

  “We’ve listened to a few phone messages from her, but we’ve been out all evening. Jack, what’s going on?”

  What could he say? Rachel wasn’t with them, the library closes at 9pm. Where was she? Had she gone back to her apartment?”

  “Jack?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve got to go.”

  “Now you hold on just a minute, soldier. You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what this is all about.”

  “General, Rachel may be in danger. This is going to sound crazy, but Rachel and I have uncovered proof that these dreams I’ve been having—the ones I came up there to see that sleep doctor for—are because…I’m being drugged. Me and three college students. A professor here was treating us like guinea pigs, testing some new experimental drug.”

  “What?”

  “I know, it sounds crazy. The thing is, in the last two weeks two of the students being tested have died, directly because of this drug.”

  “Died?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m bringing all the evidence I gathered to the police tomorrow. After meeting with them, we’ll probably drive up there to be with you. I’ll explain everything then.”

  “You said Rachel may be in danger?”

  “She might be. I don’t know for certain. But really, I’ve got to go. She’s not answering her phone. I’m going to drive over and check on her at her apartment. I’ll call you as soon as I locate her.” Jack hung up.

  As he did, he noticed his cell phone battery icon was in the red. It was going to die any minute.

  He hurried out of the house and down the steps. “Oh God, oh God,” he kept repeating. “Please let her be there and be okay.” He raced his car in reverse out the driveway, and fishtailed onto Rambling Road.

  53

  Jack pulled into Rachel’s parking lot. On the way there, he had tried to suppress any dark thoughts, but it wasn’t easy. She wasn’t at her parents and she hadn’t left any other voicemails after that first one…which was hours ago. He really couldn’t picture someone like Thornton coming after her. She was probably fine, but he’d feel so much better if they could connect.

  Jack looked but didn’t see her car parked in either of the two spaces provided. Two other cars were parked in her spots; maybe that forced her to park somewhere else.

  He pulled into the first open guest space, shut off his car, and hurried toward her apartment. As he neared her door, there was Tuffguy, who arched his back and rubbed up against Jack’s pants. Rachel had said she never let him out anymore, afraid he’d get beaten up again or run over. Jack thought about picking him up but wasn’t sure how well that would go. It did make him wonder if Rachel was home. He couldn’t imagine she knew he was out roaming the sidewalks.

  That sense of tension turned into dread when Jack reached for the doorbell. Her front door was clearly unlocked, standing open several inches.

  “Rachel,” he yelled, as he pushed it open further. Standing there in the threshold, his eyes immediately latched onto the motionless body lying face down in the hallway. “Oh, Rachel no.” With the light from the dining area, Jack saw a splatter of blood on the hallway wall. He looked down at Rachel. It had to be her. She wore the same sweater she had worn that afternoon. Tears welled up in his eyes.

  He took one step toward her body when, suddenly, a bullet pounded into the trim around the front door, inches from his ear. Jack dropped to the floor then looked up at the bullet hole. Was it Thornton? Who else could it be? He had killed Rachel and now he was lying in wait, lurking somewhere outside, trying to kill him.

  This was crazy. Had Thornton gone mad?

  Jack wanted to go to Rachel. He couldn’t just leave her there. Then another bullet smacked into the side of the building just fractions above his head. Jack had to go. He ran in the opposite direction from where the shots rang out. A third bullet slammed into the wall a half-step behind him. He turned the corner and ran through a breezeway, then down the far side of the apartment building, heading for an area covered in shadows.

  # # #

  Avery couldn’t believe it. He had Jack in his sights. How could he have missed him three times? He didn’t have long before the police showed up. He had already taken his silencer off when Jack showed up. People might talk themselves out of calling for one gunshot, but not three.

  He quickly put the silencer back on and turned on the car. He drove around to the other side of the building in search of his quarry. He had maybe five minutes before the cops arrived.

  # # #

  Jack hid behind a rusty dumpster at the far end of the complex. He heard a car start up, saw headlights come around the side of the building. The car was creeping toward him, less than fifty yards away. Now he wasn’t so sure it was Thornton. It was definitely not Thornton’s car. Whoever it was, he was shining a flashlight on the corridors and in between the parked cars. Jack was sure he’d shine it around the dumpster in a matter of seconds.

  He lifted the lid and quietly slipped into the dumpster. His gag reflexes activated as he lay down among heaps of rotting trash bags. It must have been days since the garbage had been removed. He lay still, tried not to breathe. He could hear the car; it was closer now, maybe twenty yards away. His mind flashed to the sight of Rachel, lying dead in the hallway, her blood smeared against the wall. It hadn’t sunken in yet that she was gone. Anger began to replace his panic, mixed with fear. He wished he had a gun, even a knife would do. He would go after the guy in this car and tear him apart, or else die trying.

  Jack saw the light, probably from the flashlight, dancing above the lid of the dumpster. Thin streams of light from the car’s headlights beamed through tiny rust holes. It was all Jack could do to keep from throwing up. It sounded like the car stopped. He listened for a car door opening. If it did, he was sure his time had come. He imagined timing a swift uppercut to the man’s face as he opened the dumpster lid. It might buy Jack enough time to run and avoid getting shot.

  He waited.

  The car continued past, taking the lights with it, leaving Jack in black darkness. After several moments, the darkness was matched by silence. The car was gone. Or, at least, had moved on to another part of the complex.

  Slowly, Jack raised his eyes above the rim of the dumpster. The coast was clear. He quickly jumped out, brushing chunks of garbage off his sleeves. He ran toward his car, staying in the shadows. As he got in, he looked around carefully for any sign of the car.

  He thought about going back to Rachel’s apartment but changed his mind. What good would it do for him to be caught there by the police when they arrived? They might try to blame her death on him. Right now, it appeared no one had seen him. Whoever had killed Rachel was still nearby. Jack didn’t know what he looked like, but he knew the car. The killer had to be caught. Jack decided to drive around the area, see if he could spot the car. Maybe take down the license number.

  Then he would go to the police.

  As he drove away with his headlights off, he could hear the faint sound of police sirens. He thought about Rachel. Tears filled his eyes. He couldn’t believe she was gone. They were just getting started, but he had actually begun to imagine she could be…the one. He banged his fist on the dashboard.

  The police would be arriving any moment. They’d discover her body lying there in the hall. After the CSI’s did their thing at the scene, they’d take her away in a body bag. The image brought a wave of nausea. He yanked the steering wheel, forcing the car to the side of the road. He opened the door and threw up. Grabbing a towel he found in the
back seat, he wiped himself off then tossed it on the floor.

  He drove all around Rachel’s complex then through the streets of the surrounding neighborhoods. There was no sign of the car. He wondered who this man was. Was he Thornton’s accomplice? Did he work for Thornton or this Dr. Jameison? He still had the hardest time believing the professor would be mixed up in something like this. It was so opposite from the nature of the man he’d known for all those years. There had to be a compelling reason, like the blackmail option. That was the only thing that made any sense.

  Jameison was obviously the blackmailer. Ultimately, he was the man behind this entire scheme. Likely, Jack thought, the one who had hired this killer to take both him and Rachel out. If Jack could only find him, there was a good chance he still had the murder weapon in his car.

  After driving around the area for another fifteen minutes with no luck, the smell inside the car became overwhelming, leftover smells from his time in the dumpster. Jack decided he needed to get to a bathroom and get cleaned up. But he couldn’t go back to his place. If this man knew where Rachel lived, he certainly knew were Jack was staying.

  Jack remembered a motel out by the highway. He had thought about staying there before Thornton secured his old apartment.

  54

  About twenty minutes later, Sergeant Joe Boyd stood in the open doorway, surveying the grisly scene. A young coed lay dead in the hallway from a single gunshot wound to the head. No sign of forced entry. No obvious sign of rape. Evidence of a struggle. Could be a simple burglary.

  Could be.

  “What happened to my nice little town?” Boyd said. “This is getting as bad as Pittsburgh.”

  He barely had time to take in the scene when Dobbs yelled to him from his patrol car outside. “Sergeant Boyd, it’s Hank. He says he needs to talk to you. He says it’s urgent.”

  Boyd walked toward Dobbs, past another officer already dusting the front door for prints. “What you got, Hank?” Boyd asked.

  “You’re not gonna believe this, Joe. But we got another one.”

  “Another what?” Boyd said.

  “Another corpse.”

  “What is going on around here?” Boyd shouted. “Four dead students in two weeks.”

  “This one’s not a student,” Hank said. “Looks like another suicide. Though I’m not sure about anything now.”

  “A suicide. Where are you, Hank?”

  “You’re not going to believe who I’m looking at here.”

  “Hank….” Boyd was in no mood for guessing games.

  “I’m out here at Lake Sampson.”

  “Lake Sampson,” Boyd said. “That even our turf?”

  “Afraid so. I’ve got a dead professor here, Joe. His ID says he teaches history at Culpepper. His name’s Thornton.”

  Boyd did not respond. His mind involuntarily started organizing the puzzle pieces.

  “Don’t you get it—a professor?”

  “Yeah, I do. Go on.”

  “Got a single gunshot wound to the heart—this place is a bloody mess. The gun’s here, I got a note here. No sign of forced entry.”

  “You read the note?”

  “Yeah, it says—get this—that he’s been hiding a secret gay lifestyle, and implies he was involved with that student who committed suicide a few days ago. You know…the jumper?”

  “For crying out loud,” Boyd said. “What kind of place is this?”

  “Joe, I’ve lived here most of my life. I’ve never seen anything like this before—ever.”

  “All right. What makes you think this professor might not be a suicide?”

  “It’s this note…a fourth-grader could spell better. I can’t imagine a history professor writing something like this. And…didn’t we learn the kid who jumped had a girlfriend who dumped him? I don’t know. This all seems way too fishy.”

  “Well, bag the note, and we’ll check it out later. You alone?”

  “Just me and the neighbor who called. He’s pretty shaken up.”

  “All right, seal it off as a crime scene, then get on the horn and wake everybody up. I want every man, every car, up and about. Get two guys patrolling around this apartment complex. Tell ‘em to get the names of anyone that looks out of place. Get someone out there to babysit our dead professor till the coroner arrives—and tell whoever you get it’ll be a while ‘cause I’ve got the coroner coming here first—and then you meet me at the station in thirty minutes. I’m gonna get to the bottom of all this.”

  “You think this guy Turner’s got something to do with this? That guy we talked to this morning? I got a phone call from him earlier tonight. He was all worked up, saying something about finding new evidence. Solid proof. Didn’t he say something about his thing involving a history professor?”

  “I think you’re right. I hate to say it, but something bigger may be going on here. There’s been way too much activity. Something’s gotta be agitating it. I want to at least check into his story again. I’ll read over those papers he gave me. You send someone by his place and pick him up. Do we know where he lives?”

  “I can find out.”

  “All right, send someone by to pick him up. Tell them not to arrest him, just bring him in for questioning.” Boyd thought a moment. “Forget that, Hank. You go get Turner yourself. I don’t want any screw-ups.”

  “What about the professor? You wanted me to wait here till the M.E. shows up.”

  “Turner’s more important.”

  “Alright,” Hank said. “How about I see you at the station in forty-five?”

  “Right. Forty-five…or sooner. And Hank?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You keep talking to me if anything changes.”

  “Right.”

  Boyd walked back to the apartment to find Dobbs marking off the area with yellow tape. Maybe there was hope.

  55

  Jack arrived at the Woodbine Inn in about twenty minutes. An Indian man stood behind the front desk. Jack wondered what he must have thought about Jack coming in like this: late at night, smelling like garbage, his eyes all puffy. The man didn’t seem to mind. The handful of cars in the parking lot was probably why. He gave Jack a key to room number ten.

  Jack jiggled his motel key several times, and was just about to walk back to the front desk for a new one, when the lock gave way. He threw his briefbag on the far bed and turned to lock the door. No dead bolt, just a little pull chain dangling across the doorway. He drew the curtains together but gave up trying to close the gap after several frustrating tries.

  As he walked to the sink, he took off his putrid clothes, letting them fall wherever they fell. He flicked on the light switch in the bathroom. An annoying fan rumbled in the ceiling. As the shower heated up, the fan sounded like it was about to explode, so he flicked off the switch and took a shower in the dark. He stood under the hot water for several minutes, too tired to move. A memory of Rachel’s lifeless body jolted him out of his stupor.

  He fought back another wave of tears as he scrubbed off the stench and shampooed his hair. He stood there a long while, then turned the water off, dried off and wandered out of the bathroom. After shuffling toward the nearest bed, he plopped down, his hair still mostly wet. He rolled over onto his face and quickly fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

  # # #

  Forty-five minutes later, Jack awakened to the sound of a car screeching into the motel parking lot. It rumbled right up to one of the parking places near his room. The headlights shined through the crack in his curtains like a laser. He lay still on his bed and listened as the engine shut off, the car door opened and closed. Was it the police?

  But there were no sirens, no flashing lights.

  Deciding it was just someone coming in late, he rolled over. Soon he heard a nearby motel door open and close. As he lay there, a vague anxiety began to take hold. Soon, the anxiety formed into words: Where would the guy who killed Rachel be sleeping tonight? This was one of the one of only a handful of motels in Culpepper. />
  He sat up, wide awake, then tiptoed across the rug and peered through the cracks between his curtains.

  It was the car.

  The same car Jack had seen from inside the dumpster. Parked right next to his. Did the guy know what kind of car Jack drove? He had to. But Jack had heard him go into the room. Maybe he’d walked right by it. For a moment, Jack thought about calling the police, but that idea was quickly extinguished by a more primal desire to get out of there, as quickly as possible.

  Jack got dressed, tossed his smelly clothes in the garbage can. Quietly, he walked across the carpet to the front door, slowly slid the chain out of its groove. He turned the knob and opened the door, praying it wouldn’t creak. Closed it over but wouldn’t let it latch.

  As he stood outside in the corridor, he guessed which room the man was staying in. There was only one other room with a light on. The curtains were closed. Jack walked to his car. He wondered how he could open and close the door without making a sound. He got in as quietly as possible, wincing as the door clicked shut.

  As he turned on the ignition he looked up and saw the curtains in the man’s room spreading apart. Jack immediately turned on his headlights, hoping to blind the man temporarily so he couldn’t see who was driving. He backed out slowly to avoid suspicion and drove toward the main road, back into town.

  It didn’t work.

  Through his rear view mirror he saw a man run out of the room, stop and stare in Jack’s direction. As Jack rounded a curve, the man ran back into his room, probably for his keys.

  And his gun, Jack thought.

  He floored it.

  Where should he go? To the police? Maybe it was time. He would at least be safe from this killer, for now anyway. But then another thought. Professor Thornton hadn’t killed Rachel. This other guy had. And he probably worked for Jameison. Thornton might have no idea that Rachel was dead. If Jack could find him, tell him about Rachel, maybe he would come clean.