“Easy now, Jo’Ell. Maybe this isn’t the best time to drag up the past.” Bloom pushed back in his chair, creating a few pointless inches of additional distance between himself and the enraged ogre.
“No. Now!” Jo’Ell roared. “Tell me now.”
Bloom began to pant. He was too nervous to speak.
Jo’Ell tore open the envelope and spread the pictures out across the desk. His mouth opened wide, and he began to huff like a spent horse as his gaze fell upon the photos of Diamond Sand, his true mother. He reeled for a moment as memories flooded back that he had repressed for almost two decades. He jabbed the picture with his finger. “Huh-huh-who?” he stammered. “Who is this?”
“Why that was your mother, Jo’Ell. Surely—” The words died on Bloom’s tongue.
Jo’Ell was coming for him, his hands opened wide to crush Bloom within his grasp.
“No, Jo’Ell. No.” Bloom was slow. He had barely risen when Jo’Ell grabbed him by the throat.
“That son of a bitch probably killed my mother and you … you defended him?” He was wild, out of control and bewildered. “You signed the checks while he tortured me and treated me like an animal?”
Gurgling sounds hissed from Bloom’s mouth as he tried in vain to defend himself.
Tears poured down Jo’Ell’s cheeks as his grasp tightened around Bloom’s throat and crushed his esophagus.
Chapter 57
Livonia opened the back door and walked in from the porch. She looked for Jo’Ell and Bloom in the den and then checked the rest of the house. She called out, “Dinner’s ready, you two. Hello? Where have you men gone to?” Where the hell are they? “You smell that? That’s some fine-tasting meat on the grill. You don’t want it to get dried out, do you?”
She walked out the front door, looked around, and saw Jo’Ell’s broad figure in the distance, silhouetted against the setting sun. He was alone. Where’s Bloom? she wondered. She was too far away for him to hear her, but she called out nonetheless. “You picked a bad time to show Stuart around, Jo’Ell. You hear me calling you?” She bunched her lips. “Damn! Now I’ve got to walk all the way over there.” She put her hands on her hips and huffed before taking a deep breath and cooling off. Mind your place, girl. She’d seen Jo’Ell’s temper firsthand and knew that his fuse was exceedingly short. She pacified him daily with abundant doses of sweetness and sex because her meal ticket was quick to anger and dangerous when provoked. She walked around to the back of the house to lower the flame on the grill before setting off to retrieve them.
Jo’Ell was much further away than she had at first thought. It took her a full five minutes to reach him. “Jo’Ell, what the hell are you digging? Didn’t you hear me calling you for dinner?”
Jo’Ell turned to her, staring at her with a blank expression, and then continued to dig. He had broken ground on a rectangle about twenty feet long and ten feet wide. Sweat ran down his cheeks. His shirt was soaked with perspiration.
“What’s wrong, Jo’Ell? Where’s Stuart?”
He disregarded her question and drove his shovel into the ground with a vengeance. Shovel after shovel he drove his spade into the ground like a hydraulic machine.
“You’re scaring me. What’s wrong, son? What’s wrong?”
He stopped and jammed his shovel into the soil, then seared her with his gaze before beckoning her forward with a wave of his fingertips. He pointed to Bloom’s car, which had been moved and was now parked twenty yards beyond him.
“I don’t understand,” she said. An odd notion struck her. “Are you planning to bury Stuart’s car?” she asked incredulously. “Damn it, Jo’Ell, what the hell is going on?”
He directed her silently, pointing so that she’d look through the windshield.
“Is that Stuart? Looks like he’s sleeping. Does he feel all right?”
She took a few steps closer so that she could see Bloom more clearly, but he was too far away for her to see that he was dead. She was puzzled and still straining to get a better look when Jo’Ell swung the shovel at her and pulverized her skull like a melon.
Chapter 58
The home that Jo’Ell Sand now inhabited was nothing like the one he had grown up in. The house in Coney Island was a place where painful memories had been created, memories that would accompany him throughout his life. By contrast, his new home was a place that would allow him to forget his years as a tormented youth. The layout of his home, every room, and every furnishing had been built or acquired for that one purpose, to try to lay the past to rest.
Several years had passed since he had come to the realization that Blunt had murdered his mother and grandmother, and that Stuart Bloom and Livonia Jenkins were no more than hangers-on, parasites living off his wealth. Death had united them. They were found out traitors and conspirators who were now rotting in the dirt.
More than twenty-five years had passed since his mother and grandmother had been murdered, and still pain ran through his veins and poisoned his thoughts. His mind, the mind doctors said might never develop, had been repaired and had grown immeasurably. He had become an avid reader and an even greater doer. Sun Tzu had become his mentor, and he had a leather-bound copy of The Art of War, which he read from daily. Because of the large legal award Steve Dartmouth had secured for him, he never wanted for money, but peace of mind … that was a different matter entirely.
He had redesigned his home after killing Livonia, and every trace of her had been removed. Every room had a specific purpose that suited his many moods. He had built a shrine to his true mother and grandmother from the few photos he had received from Bloom, and visited it every morning and evening before retiring for the night. His study now contained several high-powered computers. Books filled every inch of space that was not already committed to his trophies, the heads of the beasts he had hunted and killed.
And there was the war room in the basement, a concrete and steel bunker he had created in order to carry out his crusades, a place he could live if he was faced with the end, a place he could retreat into when the world turned on him as he knew someday it would. It was there that he stored his weapons. It was there that he devised his plans, and there that he stored the trophies he could not display in his den, his souvenirs and mementos, the memories of his kills.
Solitude had never been an issue. He had learned to live on his own in the basement of the Coney Island house, where he’d spent hour upon hour in the dark, alone with his goldfish and feral pets. He now had new pets. The alarm on his watch chimed to remind him that it was feeding time. He spent another half hour doing a final check on James Lee Blugosh on the LexisNexis background-checking web site before tending to his pets. Blugosh had contacted him through one of his many blogs, Massacre Mountain, a blog he used to lure his murder-lust victims. Blugosh had recently been questioned by the police in conjunction with the murder of a twenty-three-year-old woman, a fact he had intentionally omitted when completing the web profile required in order to contact Jo’Ell via his blog. He logged that tidbit into his memory and then took the hidden passageway down to the bunker.
They were silent until Jo’Ell opened the compartment that contained their cage, and then the bats hummed in a frenetic, haunting melody of high-pitched screeches and chirps that delighted him. “Unconditional love,” he mused, “but not for me.” It wasn’t anything like the love a dog shows for its master. The bats lived only to eat. Their only loves were blood and an engorged belly.
He opened a small beverage refrigerator and removed the blood he had taken from the blood bank. They drank a full quart a week, and the cage had to be cleaned every two or three days. They were ghastly looking animals, but Jo’Ell accepted them for what they were just as his mother had accepted him as he was, a deformed baby with the primitive maturity of a wild beast. Human blood was a delicacy for them, a treat he gave them on occasion to remind them how much sweeter it was than the cow’s blood they consumed as their staple. He regularly purchased fresh cow’s blood from a local
slaughterhouse without difficulty or question—many of the local hunters purchased fresh cow’s blood to blend into blood sausage along with their fresh kill.
The smell of blood whipped them into a frenzy. They hopped onto the cage bars, clicking and screeching as they watched Jo’Ell squeeze their meal through an IV tube into the bird trough that was fitted to the inside of the cage. They then became silent except for the lapping of the blood they consumed like tiny fur-covered gluttons.
He had been caring for them for years, yet they still suspiciously monitored his whereabouts while they ate. He plopped down into his chair watching them dine, and they watched him to make sure that he was not a threat, another creature that might compete with them for the blood. For some odd reason it gave him peace to watch them feed. He was thinking about Blugosh as his eyelids grew heavy. He had already decided Blugosh’s fate. Only a certain type of person searched the web for sites like his. Jo’Ell’s site placed a tracking cookie into the computer of anyone who visited his blog, and he was able to see any site the visitor searched afterward. The stops that Blugosh made after visiting Massacre Mountain fit his profile exactly. He felt so confident about his feelings that he grinned knowingly as he pictured the hunt in his mind; Blugosh slipping through the darkened woods just several hours hence.
Jo’Ell awoke to dead silence and the pungent odor of bat urine. Instinctively he knew that he had been out about twenty minutes because three of the five bats had finished eating and were excreting waste while the other two finished their meals. The kidneys of vampire bats are highly efficient. The bats begin to urinate almost as soon as they begin to feed. They’re too heavy to fly after feeding; at practically double their unfed weight, they can’t take to the air until they lighten their loads.
Jo’Ell’s bunker was light tight, but he checked his watch and knew by the hour that the sun had already begun to set. He grabbed the birdcage by the handle and removed his five cherubs from their hiding place. “I think some fresh night air is in order.” He carried the cage with him, pausing just for a moment to admire his handiwork, miniature carvings of the men he had slain. They were posed upon beds with crosses carved into the headboards. At the head, the foot, both sides, and upon the victim’s chest were carvings of the five bats he carried with him. He amused himself by chanting a song as he climbed the narrow staircase to the main level.
“One to the foot and one to the head.
They’ll suck your blood until you’re dead.
And when they’re done, oh you will dwell,
in that beastly place, the one called hell.”
Chapter 59
Jo’Ell’s stomach made noises as he marched up the staircase. The bats had been fed, and now it was time for him to satisfy his appetite. He had a busy night ahead of him and preferred to eat early. He didn’t like being weighed down with food, knowing that he needed to be active and alert.
All the pieces were in place, and he was eager to see them carried out. Tonight, he thought, will be a fulfilling night. His senses tingled with anticipation.
“What to eat?” he mused as he peered into the giant refrigerator. He wanted something that would fill him but nothing too heavy. He had rotisserie chickens in the refrigerator. Anything else that appealed to him would have to be prepared and grilled. Chicken wasn’t his favorite, but it was convenient, and he always had a couple of birds on hand. He pulled one out of the refrigerator and carried it over to the counter. He tore off a leg and began eating as he stood at the counter looking through the kitchen window.
The light outside was dim but not so dim that a stranger’s movements could go unnoticed. “A trespasser?” The appearance of an unwanted visitor made him uneasy, especially now, on the eve of a hunt. He dropped the chicken leg and hurried outside.
~~~
Duncan Duffy was a geek, an awkward kid without true friends. He was the kind of kid who needed to win over his peers with his cool gadgets—they were what-have-you-done-for-me-lately relationships. He was often alone and usually had to provide his own entertainment. Today was no different. The metal detector looked as normal in his hands as a baseball bat in the hands of any other teen. He wore khakis and a flannel shirt, which fit him like hand-me-downs. The cuffs dragged on the ground, and the seat of his pants bagged over his flat butt. His shirt cuffs were rolled up and still extended past his wrists.
He adjusted his headphones when the metal detector started to click. “Hear that, boy? It’s something big.” He looked around just in time to see Frodo running off. “Stupid dog.” He turned his focus back toward the ground and stared at it intently even though he knew from reading the depth gauge that whatever the metal detector had picked up was buried down deep. He had a smile on his face when the giant came up behind him. Although Duncan couldn’t hear him with the headphones in place, he had the sense that he wasn’t alone. A chill ran down his spine as he slowly turned his head.
Chapter 60
Cabrera was truly in the zone. He was working the phones like a channel Thirteen fundraiser, “For a donation of just three hundred dollars you’ll receive the twelve-CD Neil Sedaka best hits collection and a limited edition, autographed Pavarotti champagne flute.” I’m not poking fun at Thirteen. In fact, I pledge regularly. Grace has always been passionately committed to the arts and had instilled in me the importance of supporting them as best we could. She used to contribute big money, but that was way back when she had real money. Now it’s just nickels and dimes. Her inability to be a meaningful patron really bothered her. It was just one more cross for her to bear. Dear old dad had heaped lots of crosses on his ex-wife’s back.
He had just hung up with someone at Outside magazine. I pulled up a chair next to him. “Getting anywhere?”
“I think I’ve finally gotten to the right person, but she has to get permission from the compliance manager to release the information I requested.”
“I hate it when they give you the I-need-approval-from-my-boss routine. How long before they call back?”
He checked the time. “It’s pretty late in the day, Gumdrop. I doubt we’ll hear back before it’s time to go nighty-night.”
“Rats!”
“Yeah, rats,” he reiterated. “What did you find out about Pesch?”
I began to read from my notes, “Lewis Pesch, born October 3, 1975.”
“October third?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“That’s German Unity Day.”
“It’s also the third day of October; so what?”
He shrugged. “One of my grade school teachers was an old Nazi.” He looked at the ceiling reverently. “Good old Mrs. Von Ense …” He pretended to mist up. “The old fräulein had a rather jaded perspective on world history … and nipples that stood out like the turrets on a pair of Mauser submachine guns.” He focused on me. “You do know that Germany never actually lost the war, don’t you?”
“Sure, and Hitler was a misunderstood German patriot with the soul of an artist and the morals of a clergyman. Anyway, what do your history teacher’s nipples have to do with the case?”
“I already told you,” he blurted emphatically. “His birthday coincides with a German national holiday.”
My God, he’s gone soft in the head. Moving on. “You’ll never guess what he did for a living.”
“You’re right. I’ll never guess, so don’t keep me in suspense.”
“He was a taxidermist.”
“Stop right there!” he demanded lightheartedly. “The victim had a German name, was born on a German holiday, and stuffed animals for a living—what does that tell you?”
“Nothing in particular.”
“Oh, come on, Mather,” he implored. “That doesn’t shout serial killer to you?”
I wanted to call him a moron, but the truth be told, I felt the same way. “Well, yeah, maybe, but … anyway, let’s run through the rest of his background before we condemn him of committing war crimes.”
“Whatever you say, Gumdrop. Go ahe
ad if you want to, but I’ve got this bastard pegged.”
“He was an adopted child. His mother was a schoolteacher and his father …” I checked my notes. “No details on the father other than his name. Petty theft as early as age fifteen, but always got probation. Arrested at age twenty for robbery and possession of illegal firearms—did one year. He was questioned regarding the murder of Lacey Pratt, a well-known prostitute whose eyes had been surgically removed, but was released due to insufficient evidence.” I closed my notepad. “All right, I agree—he’s a big-time psycho, a major wacko. The fact that he wasn’t convicted doesn’t mean that he’s not a killer; he’s just been smart enough to get away with it. He fits our UNSUBs MO to a tee.”
“Sure,” Cabrera began, most matter-of-factly. “I’ll bet that he’s responsible for multiple homicides. Probably had a dandy nickname for himself like the Upstate Ripper or the Catskills Slasher.”
I sneered at Cabrera. “Here’s the really cool part. There’s no record of his disappearance. He lived fifteen minutes southeast of here in a town called Wurtsboro. Want to go crash his pad?”
Cabrera looked tired. He responded without enthusiasm, “Sure, Gumdrop, I’ve been sitting around for so long I’ve got five fresh zits on my rear end. Let’s go loot and plunder.” He stood. “You did say his home was only fifteen minutes from here, didn’t you?”
“As the crow flies, Dominic.”
“From the delays I’ve encountered on these upstate roads, as the crow flies don’t mean a whole hell of a lot. You get stuck behind a tractor and fifteen minutes turns into a weekend.”
I reached for my jacket. “Are you coming or not?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m coming,” he complained. “Don’t get your government-issue panties in a bunch.”
The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers) Page 42