Lilith: a novel

by Edward Trimnell

  Jessica Knox was nowhere in sight, of course, but it wasn't too difficult to predict her destination.

  Dave was inside the Loft with Alicia Griggs. Griggs wasn't Jessica Knox; but it now appeared that the two women might be somehow working together.

  Once again, Alan was confirmed in his belief that there were few real coincidences.

  The inside of the Loft was noisy, chaotic, and crowded. Jessica scanned the writhing, youthful crowd, but she saw no sign of either the cop, Don, or Alicia Griggs.

  Jessica had never met Alicia Griggs, but she figured that her stand-in would be easy enough to spot. She would be with “Don”, after all, and Jessica knew exactly what Don looked like. She had seen Don’s picture online multiple times, and she had seen him once in person, albeit from a distance.

  A few minutes ago on the sidewalk, on her way in, Jessica had immediately recognized the tall, balding cop. He had been one of the cops that night in the Terrace View parking lot. And even if she had not remembered him, he was exactly like her mother had described him.

  It had appeared that he was involved in some sort of an altercation with the three young men out on the sidewalk. Jessica said a silent prayer—to whatever gods might be listening—that the balding cop would be lengthily delayed by the three men.

  For all she cared, he could arrest them, or (even better) the three of them might overpower him. Yes, that might be the ideal outcome—almost too good to hope for. Would the police investigation end if the tall, balding cop were murdered? She didn't think so. But it would probably delay the matter. She sensed (perhaps irrationally, perhaps correctly) that the tall, balding cop had developed a personal vendetta against her. He was stalking her, and he would not stop until he either caught her or he was himself killed.

  The hunter has become the hunted, she thought grimly.

  No, that wasn't true. She wasn't a hunter. She had never killed anyone. Travis was the one who had done all the killing.

  But if she and Travis were caught, the law wouldn't make such fine distinctions. They would charge her with murder along with Travis, even though she had not held the pistol to those men’s heads and pulled the trigger.

  In each case, in fact, she had averted her eyes when she saw Travis approach the victim from behind. This was, of course, partly to avoid giving away Travis’s presence. But it was also because she did not want to witness the killing. When she heard the muffled shot, it had become her habit to immediately flee to another part of the victim’s house with her gaze studiously averted. She had no desire to witness the aftermath of Travis’s handiwork. She had never reentered the death rooms of Robert Billings, Harold Markey, or Scott Green. In her final memories of them, each man was alive, lost in the illusion of their faux relationship.

  Jessica made her way through the dance club’s raucous, bustling crowd. She knew that she had to hurry. She would have to find Alicia and Don, and then she would have to somehow catch Alicia’s attention. She would pull Alicia aside and tell her not to follow through with whatever Travis had planned.

  Travis. Then she remembered that Travis was to be here tonight as well. He would be somewhere among the crowd. Travis would be easy to spot because of his height. If she found Travis first, maybe she could appeal to him, talk some sense into him.

  She reminded herself that she might have to threaten him. Well, she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

  Worst case, she would appeal directly to the police officer, Don. Perhaps she could change sides, turn—what did they call it?—state’s witness. Yes, it might very well come to that. They might put her away for a few years, but they wouldn't charge her the same as Travis. Not if she testified against him and told everyone what Travis had done.

  “Hey, baby!” Jessica’s progress was halted when someone grabbed her arm. At first she expected it to be Travis; she knew within a split second that it was someone else.

  She stared up into the face of a young man with sandy-colored hair and a prominent chin. Like many of the patrons here, he was deliberately and stylishly dressed down, in unconscious imitation of the grunge style that had been popular in the early 1990s—when Jessica had been a little girl. He was a suburban boy, big and good-looking enough, but not tough. Not a killer. He was nothing like Travis, really.

  “Let me go,” Jessica said calmly but firmly. The young man, obviously intoxicated, released her arm after a protracted pause.

  “I’m just being friendly,” he said. “You’re cute.”

  Jessica shook her head. She was in no mood to deal with this man tonight—not now. She started to move past him when he grabbed her arm again. The gesture was not yet seriously threatening, though it had crossed over the line of proper behavior, and was unwelcome by any reasonable standard.

  “You’re a stuck-up little thing, aren’t you?” he said. “What makes you think you’re so special?”

  Jessica opened her windbreaker ever so slightly, allowing the young man a glimpse of the semiautomatic pistol she was carrying. This was risky, of course, because other patrons might see it. But there would also be a risk in allowing herself to be further delayed.

  The young man saw the gun. All of the color drained from his face. This wasn't just another woman in a bar, he was probably thinking.

  “I—” he began.

  Jessica cut him off. “Don’t say a word to anyone,” she said. “Or I’ll come back and make you very sorry. Now stand aside so I can pass by.”

  He did as Jessica told him.

  43.

  Against his better judgment, Dave allowed Alicia to lead him into the alley across the street from the Loft. Several times he asked her to stop. Once they were outside the club, she could smoke practically anywhere. This was Cincinnati—not Berkeley, California—and there were no draconian laws that would have stopped her from lighting up in the parking lot or on a sidewalk.

  And besides, Alicia Griggs indulged in far more potent substances than those found in Marlboros or Winstons. She would not be deterred by obscure anti-smoking ordinances, even if they existed here.

  But each time he called out to her, Alicia turned around and gave him a beckoning smile. Well, if it was her idea to kiss him (or maybe even do more!) then even she wouldn't want to do that in front of people, would she?

  And this thought aroused another possibility in Dave’s mind: What if Alicia had something truly intimate in mind? What if her plan was to beckon him to a darkened, private place, then kneel before him in an act of supplication? Certainly some men would be drawn to that, right?

  What would he do then? He wasn't attracted to Alicia Griggs, and there were any number of professional codes of conduct to consider. At the same time, though, he was undercover, and he was supposed to be acting in character—whatever that meant.

  This was why he so loathed fieldwork. He was good with the computer side of police work, the analysis and the electronic sleuthing. Why had Alan insisted that he do this?

  Why? Because he was exactly the sort of man that the serial killer Lilith—whoever she really was—targeted, he reminded himself.

  Alicia disappeared down a darkened street called Covey Avenue. It wasn't much of a street, properly speaking, but rather a little alleyway that separated two blocks of long-past-its-prime commercial real estate. Covey Avenue was marked with a sign that said “No Outlet”. It would be too narrow for delivery trucks to navigate.

  “Hold up!” Dave called out—not unkindly. But this was ridiculous, wasn't it? They were supposed to be on a date; she had more or less come on to him; and yet he was having to chase her.

  When Dave arrived at the top of Covey Avenue, Alicia was standing in front of a dumpster, already lighting a cigarette. A security light mounted to an adjacent building provided a small amount of illumination.

  Dave had been expecting further amorous advances, but Alicia made no attempt to approach him. She remained obstinately in place as she smoked, forcing Dave to walk fully into the alley if he was to talk to her. />
  When Dave walked up to her she regarded him differently now. Not in an unfriendly manner, exactly—but there was a new coolness in her expression as she took yet another deep drag on her cigarette and exhaled.

  “What are we doing here?” Dave finally asked. “You could have smoked in the parking lot of the Loft.”

  “We’re waiting on a friend of mine,” Alicia said. “He wants to talk to you.”

  The full significance of her words was just dawning on him when he felt, rather than heard, his cell phone buzz in his pocket. He had turned the ringer down, but the phone was set to vibrate with each incoming call or text message.

  Dave pulled the phone from his pocket. It was a text message from Alan’s phone:

  ABORT. PROBLEM. J. KNOX IS INSIDE THE CLUB. I AM LOOKING FOR HER NOW. GET AWAY FROM GRIGGS AND CALL ME ASAP.

  “Hey, Don,” a male voice said from behind him.

  Dave quickly pocketed his cell phone. Then he turned to see a tall man whom he had no trouble identifying from the photographs he had seen: Travis Hall. The height, the hair, the good looks of a male model. The tattoo that resembled a length of barbed wire.

  Dave felt his bladder turn to ice, along with the rest of him, when he saw what Travis held in his hand. Travis was holding a small semiautomatic pistol, aiming it at Dave. Given the bad light in the alley and the angle, there was no way that Dave could identify the model or caliber. But that would make little difference. The muzzle of the weapon formed an implacable black eye in the semidarkness.

  Then it occurred to Dave that he was also armed: He had a Colt Mustang XSP in a shoulder holster underneath his sport coat. Prior to the undercover operation tonight, he and Alan had briefly debated the need for him to carry a weapon.

  On one hand, it didn't seem necessary for a meeting with Alicia Griggs. She was unlikely to pose an immediate physical threat, and they would be in a public place. If she noticed the weapon on Alan’s body, she would immediately become suspicious.

  On the other hand, Alicia was a known associate of felons. With an ex-con like William Mofford tangentially involved, anything was possible.

  “Take a weapon,” Alan had finally concluded. “Just make it a small one.”

  And so Dave had tucked the tiny pistol into a concealed shoulder holster. And now he found himself unable to draw it, indeed to even contemplate reaching for it.

  Travis gave him a smile that did nothing to lessen the tension.

  “You know who I am, don’t you, ‘Don’?”

  Dave made no response, but he did force himself to think: Was there any way he could go for the Colt beneath his sport coat? No, there was no way. He couldn't win a quick-draw contest when the other man had already drawn and aimed at him.

  He was then distracted by Alicia, whom he had momentarily lost track of. She had taken several steps away from him. She revealed absolutely no surprise at the presence of Travis. That explained her earlier comment, then. This night had never been what he and Alan had believed it to be. It had been a setup since Alicia had first contacted him.

  Alicia dropped her cigarette on the pavement and stamped it out with the sole of one shoe. She gave Dave a quasi-sympathetic look and a shrug.

  “Sorry,” she said. Then she walked past Dave, and toward Travis. When she reached Travis she paused, standing beside him. Dave had no idea what had passed between these two, but it was obvious that Alicia Griggs was smitten with Travis. Travis, on the other hand, had no interest in acknowledging Griggs. After five seconds or so passed, he snapped:

  “What the hell are you waiting for?”

  “I just—” Griggs was still fuzzy from whatever drugs she had taken earlier tonight. It was apparent to Dave that she was trying to decide, through her internal haze, whether or not she should say whatever it was that she was contemplating.

  Finally she said, “Bye, Travis.”

  Travis did not so much as glance in her direction.

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  Alicia walked hurriedly out of the alley. Travis waited, the gun leveled, as her footsteps receded.

  Now Travis raised the gun, pointing it directly at Dave’s head. There was little distance between them. There was no way to escape.

  Then someone else said:

  “Travis! What the hell are you doing?”

  The source of the words was female—though Dave immediately recognized that it was not Alicia’s loose, phlegmy voice, the voice of a lifelong habitual smoker. This voice was tighter, sharper. Someone else.

  The voice also rattled Travis. Travis, who had turned the tables on the cops who were pursuing him—Travis, who had been the picture of calm until now. Without lowering the gun, Travis looked over his shoulder at the dark-haired woman who had just stepped into the alley.

  Dave momentarily weighed the possibility of making a bold move to alter his predicament. He could dart past Travis or, better yet, disarm him.

  But as soon as recognition dawned on his face, Travis turned back to Dave. He never lowered the gun.

  “Jessica,” Travis said, giving Dave his full attention again. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I believe I just asked you the very same question.”

  As she moved closer, Dave immediately made two observations, neither of which particularly surprised him, given the circumstances. First of all, the woman was Jessica Knox, whose photo he had also seen and committed to memory. Secondly, Jessica Knox was carrying a gun of her own, another semiautomatic pistol.

  Jessica came to a stop just to the side of them. She was also roughly between them. She was holding her gun at an angle to suggest that she was aiming it. However, there was some ambiguity about whether her aim was centered on Travis’s prisoner, or Travis himself.

  Travis did not make any acknowledgement of Jessica’s gun, but he did give her an answer of sorts.

  “I’m going to end this, right here and now, baby.”

  Jessica Knox exhaled. The gesture seemed to imply that Travis simply didn't understand the score. But Jessica was weary and exasperated, rather than hostile or angry.

  “Right, Travis: You’re going to shoot a cop; and then they’ll be hunting us for the rest of our lives—which won’t be long.”

  Travis continued to display an ability to keep his gaze centered on Dave while simultaneously holding a discussion with Jessica—a discussion which had now turned pointedly heated.

  “Jessica, I know what I’m doing here. I need for you to go home now. And I’ll take care of this. Go now. I’ll see you at home later.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, baby,” Jessica said. “The law might forget about—” She looked briefly at Dave before completing her sentence, “that other stuff. But if you do this, there is no turning back. We’ll have to live like hunted animals. I don't want that, Travis. Do you?”

  Travis ever so slightly looked down for a second, taking note of Jessica’s gun.

  “Don’t play it this way Jessie,” he said. “You’ll regret it.”

  “I’ll regret it either way,” she replied. “Take your gun off that cop, Travis.”

  But Travis didn't seem ready to comply. There was, Dave surmised, a relationship between these two—and they were not merely partners in crime. It was a relationship overlain with both lust and violence, as these affiliations between male and female criminals often were.

  Dave had already gathered that Jessica was not an innocent party in all of this. This pair was probably the real Lilith, and Jessica had already been complicit in the murders of at least three men. Her sudden desire to save Dave from a bullet was based not on humanitarian factors, but simple self-interest.

  The question was: How far did her willingness to play both sides go? Had she in fact changed sides?

  Jessica answered this question a few seconds later, when Travis let out a long sigh and stepped back from Dave. He still held his gun, but he now lowered it to a less threatening angle.

  That settled, Jessica trained her own
pistol on Dave. The notion that Jessica was going full turncoat had been a futile, illusory notion. She and Travis had had their disagreement, but the two were still a pair.

  “Keep your hands where we can see them,” Jessica said. “And remember that we let you live tonight. Remember to tell the judge that—or the prosecutor, or whoever.”

  Travis smirked and shook his head. “That cop ain’t going to do shit for us.”

  “Yeah, well he’d do us a lot more harm dead.”

  “No, baby—that’s where you’re wrong. He’s seen us. They’ll know who we are.”

  “They already knew who we are,” Jessica retorted, as both of them held their aims on Dave. “How do you think that cop showed up at my mom’s house?”

  Travis had no immediate answer for this. “We gotta take his gun, Jess. We at least gotta do that. They ain’t going to put us in the electric chair for taking some cop’s gun. But if we don’t he’ll come after us.”

  Jessica looked at Dave, then gave Travis a more dubious look.

  “He’s got a gun, Jess. A cop always carries a gun.”

  Jessica seemed to consider this for a moment. Then she said to Dave: “Lie down on the pavement. Face-down, with your hands out wide.”

  With no viable alternatives, Dave reluctantly did as he was told. Keeping his arms outstretched, he stepped down onto his knees. Then he leaned forward on both palms, until his entire body was prone. He could feel the wet pavement underneath him, cold and gritty.

  Never let a perp take your weapon, they always said in police firearms training. Well, a hell of lot of good his Colt had done him anyway, tucked inside a shoulder holster where he could not possibly withdraw it in time.

  Then he felt Jessica Knox’s hands along his ribcage, felt her knee in the small of his back. She found the bulge of the Colt and commanded him to raise himself partially up. She reached into his clothing and unsnapped the holster. The pistol slid out easily for her.