by Donn Cortez
“So you killed him. And to show your remorse, you nailed his driver’s license to his forehead.”
“He didn’t deserve that license! I had to show people why he’d been killed, don’t you see? There had to be a point. I couldn’t have people thinking I was just some random criminal.”
“Ah. Of course not. You were special, weren’t you?”
Stoltz looked up. For the first time, there was something besides fear in his voice. “I was never anything special,” he said. “Just another face in the crowd. But when I started my work, all that changed. I made a difference. I made the world a better place.”
“And the other members of The Pack? Do they make the world a better place?”
“They—they’re my friends. I don’t have many friends.”
“So you just ignore the fact that they murder people?”
“Friendship is a contract,” Stoltz said stiffly. “You agree to ignore the other person’s faults, and they agree to ignore yours. Friends don’t judge each other.”
“No, you just judge strangers—and then kill them. You really think what those six people did was so bad that eliminating them would change anything?”
“But it did. Not because they were gone, but because everyone knew why. And people’s behavior changed.”
“Yes,” Jack said softly. “Yes, it did. But not in the way you wanted. You didn’t make anyone more polite—you just made them afraid. There’s nothing noble or enlightening about that.”
Jack leaned forward, his face intent. “You want to know where you had the biggest effect? On the families of your victims. Innocents. Do a father’s bad driving habits mean his children should suffer, too? Or his wife?”
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t care about the victims you left behind. The survivors. But I do.” Suddenly, there was a thin steel rod in Jack’s hand. A car antenna.
“There are three stages victim-survivors usually go through,” Jack said. “The first one is impact.”
He whipped the antenna across Stoltz’s face. Stoltz screamed.
“A victim in this stage is in shock. He may be unable to concentrate, or feel distanced from his own emotions. He may experience despair, horror, or denial.”
He struck again, a vicious backhand across Stoltz’s forehead. Stoltz cried out, “Don’t!”
“The next stage is recoil. The victim feels many things—anger, depression, rejection, guilt. And, of course, loss—loss of identity, loss of self-respect, loss of control. Unpredictable mood swings—”
Another strike.
And another.
And another.
“Oh God, please don’t, why are you doing this why—”
“Finally, there’s resolution. The victim assimilates his pain. He accepts that it will never, ever go away— that it is part of him, now. It’s a weight he must carry for the rest of his life. The weight never decreases, but the muscles that support it can grow stronger.”
“What do you want? I told you everything, please don’t hurt me anymore—”
“No two victim-survivors are the same. Each person experiences the three stages differently. But there is one constant each and every one shares—do you know what that is?”
“No. No. Please, I don’t know—”
“They want to know about the end. No matter how horrific, how wrenching, they need to know how the person they loved so much died. They need details. They need them so they can re-create the last moments of that person’s life in their head, because it’s the only substitute they’ll ever have for what they truly want—to be there. To say good-bye.”
Jack paused, looked down at the antenna in his hand. Blood on chrome glinted a deep ruby in the glare from the lamp, sliding down the silver rod in discrete droplets.
“I can’t give them that. But I can give them the details. I can give them facts, if not understanding.”
“Please,” Stoltz moaned. “I’ve told you everything, everything—”
Jack put down the antenna. He picked up a length of cord and wrapped one end around his fist, then did the same with the other end. He pulled the garrote taut between his hands.
“I know,” he said.
Nikki sat in the back booth of the coffee shop and studied the objects in front of her.
There were six of them lined up on the table. She’d taken them out of a small plastic Baggie, using a napkin to make sure she didn’t actually come into physical contact with them. She knew they’d be exhaustively analyzed by the police.
Trophy collection was common among serial killers. If they kept body parts of their victims, Jack left those for the police—but sometimes, what was taken was small and easily missed. In that case, he sent Nikki to get them, labeled each item and left them with the body. At first Nikki thought it was too big a risk to take for something so inconsequential, but she quickly changed her mind. Keeping a trophy might not seem like much compared to rape and murder, but the violation was an intimate one—stealing a tiny bit of some- one’s life to help you relive their murder. If the object was innocuous enough, the killer might even be able to hang on to it after being arrested; she wondered how many murderers in prison carried a good-luck charm.
The first item was a small plastic tag shaped like a number one. Printed on it were the words, You’re Number 1 with Us! and the logo of a car dealership.
The second was a small, brightly colored plastic frog. Nikki looked at it for a second, then took a pair of red gloves out of her purse and pulled them on. They were Italian leather, smooth and thin and form- fitting. She had to push her charm bracelet up her arm to get the right one all the way on, though the loop of chain wouldn’t go too far; it was made of tempered steel, welded on, and had very little give.
She picked up the frog and looked closely at it. It was bright orange and blue; Nikki wondered if there actually was a frog like this, or if the original owner had painted it for their own reasons.
She put it down and picked up the third object, a Pez dispenser with a Batman head on it. She popped a little candy tablet into her hand, then put it in her mouth. Cherry. She briefly worried that Stoltz might have done something crazy like coating the candy with cyanide—Jack said he seemed to have some kind of secret agent fixation—but nothing happened.
The fourth was a piece of a jigsaw puzzle, heavily laminated. A metal grommet was punched into the corner of the plastic, probably to attach it to a key chain. There was no telling what the larger picture had been of; it was simply a splash of color and a few lines. Again, Nikki didn’t know if the puzzle piece had been laminated by Stoltz or his victim. Either way, it would have been done to make the piece last, so the owner could reach into his pocket and touch the smooth plastic next to his keys, a reminder of—what? A puzzle solved—or a life ended?
Maybe there wasn’t any difference.
The fifth was a Smurf, a little figure made of blue plastic. It was heavily scuffed, the painted eyes scratched and faded; someone had been carrying it around for a very long time. A gift from a child?
The last item was a small aluminum plate, embossed with a serial number and the words City of Portland. A dog tag.
She squinted at it, turned it over. On the back was engraved the word Rosie.
She tried to imagine Stoltz carrying the tag around with him, fondling it in moments of stress. Reliving his crime, fantasizing about the next one. But she didn’t have Jack’s gift of seeing things from the killer’s perspective—all she kept coming up with were images of dogs. Big ones, small ones, barking and jumping and running around. She wondered what kind of dog Rosie had been, and how long ago she had died.
She ran a finger over the dense cluster of charms on her bracelet, hearing their familiar rattle against each other. She had every type imaginable, hearts and Goddess figures and shamrocks and skulls. Some had been gifts, others she’d bought herself. When people asked about them, she just shrugged and said she was superstitious.
In the end, sh
e gathered up the objects, placed them back in their bag, and left.
Better to leave the questions to Jack.
Before disposing of Stoltz’s body, Jack took pictures.
The Stalking Ground worked on a barter system, information for information. If Jack wanted details that could lead him to other members of The Pack, he would have to pay for them—and there was only one kind of acceptable currency.
He took lots of close-ups.
He was good with a camera, had even done some professional work before deciding to concentrate on sculpture. He’d always preferred shooting static objects to people or landscapes—he liked being able to control the lighting, angle, and background without any distracting variables like movement. And an object always had a story to tell; you just had to find the right way to reveal it.
Stoltz’s body was a documentary of pain. Abrasions, burns, cuts… each one a milestone of destruction. Not of Stoltz’s will—his own fear had destroyed that almost immediately.
It was a record of erosion. Jack’s erosion.
The more questions he asked, the more certain he was that Stoltz was telling the truth.
But he hadn’t stopped.
He told himself it was because he had to be sure. It could have all been an act. All it would take was one lie to trip him up and reveal his secret to The Pack.
But Stoltz’s body told a different story.
Jack remembered every step, the significance of each wound. It was a landscape of loss, a ruined fortress of secrets that he roamed at will. He remembered how he felt at every stage… and at a certain point, he’d simply stopped feeling guilty.
He was still taking pictures when Nikki came downstairs.
“You’re gonna what?” Nikki said.
Jack studied the edge of a hacksaw. “I’m going to courier Stoltz’s brain to the Gourmet.”
“The Gourmet? Fuck the Gourmet—let’s go after the goddamn Patron!”
Nikki paced back and forth in the chamber. Road Rage’s body, its face bloated and purple, was still tied to the chair.
“I don’t know how to get to him yet,” Jack said. “The Gourmet has very specific tastes. He won’t pass up the chance to consume the brain of the Closer.”
“I’m starting to think the brain of the Closer has already been fucking consumed, Jack. You wanna warm up with this loser—” she said, gesturing at the body in the chair, “—fine, I get that. But we’re talking about the fucker that killed your family.”
“Yes,” Jack said quietly. “And now I’m killing his—”
She stopped and stared at him incredulously. “Is that what this is about? You think killing off The Pack is gonna make the Patron suffer? That is complete bull- shit, Jack, and you know it. First, the whole happy- family-of-serial-killers was Djinn-X’s thing, and he’s gone off to that big Kurt Cobain concert in the sky. Second—Jesus, Jack, the Patron doesn’t care about anyone. He goes through body parts the way a writer goes through paper. He’s the biggest fucking monster we’ve found—and I’m starting to think he’s got bigger balls than you do.”
“This isn’t a contest. It’s a process of elimination.”
“I don’t know about that, Jack. Maybe when it was just us hunting them, that was true. But now, they know. They tried to fucking assassinate you—”
“And they think they succeeded.” Jack started undoing the nut that secured the hacksaw blade. “But we did. One less of them.”
“Right. So they’re weaker, we’re stronger. And right now, they’re probably even feeling a little cocky. Overconfident. But it won’t last, Jack—we gotta go after them now.”
He detached the blade, selected one with larger teeth. “We are. I just want to make sure we do it right—”
“Right? Right?” She laughed. “Jack, you got a copy of Hunting Serial Killers for Dummies you haven’t told me about? ’Cause I kinda thought we were making this up as we went along.”
He aligned the blade, tightened the holding nut. “Nikki, you know how the process works. It takes patience.”
“It’s different now, Jack. Can’t you see that? We’re not doing the bait-and-switch thing anymore—we’re going after the motherfuckers. And they know it.”
“I told you, they think I’m dead—”
“And how long before they figure out that isn’t true? You really think you can fool these guys forever?”
Jack put down the hacksaw and looked at her levelly. “Not forever. Just long enough.”
Nikki shook her head. “I don’t know, Jack. I can’t tell if you’re just so focused you can’t change your plan—or maybe you don’t want to go after the Patron.”
“You think I’m afraid?”
“Nothing wrong with being afraid, Jack. I just wonder what you’re afraid of.”
The laptop chimed.
“Incoming message,” Jack said. “Someone wants to talk to Djinn-X.”
“Go ahead, chat with your pals,” Nikki said. “Just don’t forget who you’re supposed to be.”
She stalked out of the chamber.
PATRON: Where have you been, dear boy? We’ve missed you.
DJINN-X: Ah, some asshole stole my bike. I’ve been dealing with insurance and cops and shit.
PATRON: I understand. Quite the frustrating experience, isn’t it—having something important taken away from you?
DJINN-X: Yeah, well, if I ever find the shithead, I’ll make him pay.
PATRON: I hate to sound cynical, but—that’s highly unlikely, isn’t it? Some things, once gone, are gone forever. Better to move on.
DJINN-X: What the fuck are you talking about?
PATRON: Well, that’s your own philosophy, isn’t it? The person who stole your bike wasn’t responsible— there’s a whole chain of blame leading upward, isn’t there?
DJINN-X: Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Guess I need to put a few rounds into some corporate dickwad to make me feel better.
PATRON: Well, I have something that may change your mood: a sound file. I’m sending it now.
Jack frowned. He’d almost slipped up with that last exchange. The conversation with Nikki had upset him more than he’d thought—he’d have to be more careful.
He adjusted the volume control on the laptop’s speakers, and activated the file. The first voice he heard sounded like a young woman’s; the second was electronically disguised. Obviously, the Patron was taking no chances… but when Jack heard his first words, his heart froze.
Patron: I know who you are.
Woman: Please. Please don’t hurt me.
Patron: I know who you are.
Woman: I don’t know who you are. I don’t want to, okay? Just let me go.
Patron: I have some questions.
Woman: I’ll tell you anything you want to know, just don’t hurt me, okay? Please—
Patron: What’s your password to the Stalking Ground?
Pure, paranoid fear paralyzed him. He was suddenly sure that disguised voice was his, that the Patron had somehow recorded one of his interrogations and was playing it back to him in the moment before he burst through the door and ended Jack’s life—
Woman: The what? I don’t know what you’re talking—AAAAAAAH!
The woman’s scream jolted him, sent his pulse racing. He gasped.
Patron: I know you don’t want to betray them. But it’s too late for that.
Woman: Oh fuck. Oh fuck. My girlfriend wrote down your license plate, she’ll call the cops, don’t do this. C’mon, I’ll give you a nice blow job, you can do anything you want, just please don’t kill me. I’m only twenty, oh Jesus—
Patron: Your name is Djinn-X. You are the webmaster—
The file ended.
Jack forced himself to look down at the next message.
PATRON: But that’s not really true, is it… Closer.
DJINN-X: You’re outta your fucking mind.
PATRON: Perhaps. But I’m not wrong. Police fished a body out of the Green River yesterday—one with the hands mi
ssing. I presume that’s the real Djinn-X, and you removed the hands to impede identification. For shame, Closer—what about all his poor victims? Aren’t you denying them their closure?
DJINN-X: Okay, I’ll play. Let’s say I am the fucking Closer. That would mean he got me as well as Deathkiss—oh, and Road Rage, too, since his claim of killing the motherfucker must be a lie. So who’s left—the Gourmet? Or have I managed to nail him, too?
PATRON: I don’t believe the Gourmet has been compromised yet. The rest of your assessment is correct.
DJINN-X: That’s it, man. The Pack is based on trust. I won’t have you spreading this poisonous bullshit to the other members, telling them I’m the enemy. I’m cutting off your access—something, by the way, the Closer couldn’t do, because there’s no way I’d ever give up the fucking access codes.
PATRON: I expected you’d do as much. Of course, if I truly wanted to expose you to The Pack, I’d have already posted a message to the General Discussion group—which I haven’t.
I don’t care if you restrict my access. You’re the one I want to talk to.
DJINN-X: What makes you think I have any interest in listening to your paranoid ravings?
PATRON: The real Djinn-X wouldn’t. To try to convince me you’re him, you’re going to end this conversation quite soon. But before you do, let me send you something you should appreciate: an answer.
Another file began downloading. It was much larger than the last one.
PATRON: The question being asked is: how did the Closer get those access codes? I’ve tried to reproduce the process as best I could, though of course there was a certain amount of guesswork involved. Still, I have to thank you for creating such an entertaining blueprint to follow; I did, of course, have to supply my own raw material.
DJINN-X: You think I’m gonna just shut up and go away? Wrong. No matter how misguided you are, you’re still a member of The Pack. I won’t—I can’t let you think this way. The trust we all share is the most important thing in the world to me, man. One way or another, I’m gonna convince you of that.