The Closer

by Donn Cortez

  Or maybe the Patron was simply making an educated guess. Gambling that Jack and the Closer were one and the same, hoping that the package would make him do something crazy.

  Like killing Charlie.

  He thought for a long time about what to do next, and then he logged on to the Stalking Ground.

  A message was waiting.

  Patron: Dear Jack—by now you’ll have received my little gift. Not much, really, but it’s the thought that counts. I was hoping to keep it as a souvenir—you know how we collectors are—but I really think you should have it. If the wrapping looks familiar, it’s because I believe in recycling; the original package contained a small plastic “action figure” of some sort, but you’ll get a much bigger kick out of its current contents.

  Oh, and now that we’re on a first-name basis, please—call me Pat.

  Jack looked up from the keyboard, over at the box. He swallowed. Somehow, he hadn’t considered that there might be something else in the box. Something other than the brightly colored toy he’d bought for his son.

  It didn’t matter. It was just more mind games, more distraction. He didn’t have time for that now. He had to focus.

  He had to be the Closer.

  CLOSER: I think you’re slipping, Patron. Whatever package you’re talking about didn’t reach me, nor is my name Jack. You obviously have no idea who or where I am. That’s good.

  A reply came back almost immediately.

  Patron: My apologies for any confusion. Identity is such a tricky thing over the net, isn’t it? As is truth. Anyone can claim—or deny—anything. I suppose there’s only one way to truly be sure.

  I’ll just have to kill Jack.

  CLOSER: I doubt that. It doesn’t fit your profile. You won’t kill out of simple expediency.

  PATRON: Ah, but necessity is the mother of invention—don’t forget, all the members of The Pack had to kill a prostitute in the first place, even yours truly. She was a lovely little Asian thing, Vietnamese I believe—I was most grateful to Djinn-X for his discerning taste, even though the kill itself wasn’t terribly exceptional. Still, one does what one has to….

  Not that it matters in this case—dear Jack is an artist, which places him squarely in my purview. Normally I wouldn’t dream of ending the career of such a promising candidate, but Jack has been something of a disappointment, so far. Hasn’t produced anything in ages. I’d almost forgotten about him….

  CLOSER: Perhaps you’re going after him because you’re afraid of going after me.

  PATRON: Are you offering me a choice? Because I’ll gladly switch targets.

  CLOSER: You know I can’t do that.

  PATRON: And after I kill Jack, I’ll know even more.

  The first thing Jack did was close the curtains.

  And then he sat and stared at the present. At the past. And tried to think about the future.

  Would the Patron try to kill him? He obviously knew where Jack was staying, might even be watching him right now. Jack could simply leave town—but that would tell the Patron he’d been right.

  Did it matter?

  Anonymity was the factor that leveled the playing field. Being identified meant becoming a target. But what was identity, anyway: a name, an address, a social circle? Each one was a ring around a bull’s eye, a boundary defining that person in the center. The more rings you could get rid of, the harder you were to pin down.

  Right now, Jack Salter was little more than a convenient label. No family, no partner, no permanent residence, no job. Who cared if the Patron knew his name? There was nothing in his life he couldn’t walk away from in the next hour without ever looking back.

  Except, maybe, what was inside that present.

  He picked it up at last and began to open it. He peeled the taped paper away from itself slowly, not out of caution but respect. He had an idea of what it must contain.

  There were no wires, no explosives. There were two items, carefully wrapped in white tissue paper, dried and delicate but perfectly preserved. They looked like little bird’s claws, the fingers curled into tiny, wizened fists. He could see where Sam had bitten his nails.

  Jack broke down and began to cry, holding his son’s hands in his.

  It didn’t take long to pack. Jack saved the computer equipment for last, and checked the Stalking Ground a last time. As he expected, a message was waiting—but it was addressed to Djinn-X.

  And it wasn’t from the Patron.

  Dear Djinn-X:

  I want to join your group. I undrstand you dont want any wannabes and are being carefl about the law. I am not a cop. I have killed three people so far, all bitches. I can proove this. I have done all your tests and ansered all your questions. I beleave the Pack is real and I want In. Let me know what you want me to do and I will do it.

  Red Ed

  PS please forgive the bad spelling I am not dum but I have trouble with words.

  Jack frowned. A newcomer? He supposed it was possible; the test sites that Djinn-X had set up were probably still active, still attracting the same mix of freaks and law enforcement. Red Ed could be either. He could even be the Patron in another guise.

  Or he could be for real.

  He typed out a reply, telling Red Ed he would be in touch but was in the process of moving the Stalking Ground. He couldn’t ignore another killer—he just couldn’t. He wondered how old the “bitches” had been.

  When he was done, he disconnected all the equipment and packed it up, then took one last look around the apartment. He hadn’t been there long enough for it to feel like home, but it was the first place he’d lived in for any length of time that didn’t have a blacked-out room in its basement. Jack took a deep breath through his nose, smelled just the faintest whiff of curry from one of his neighbors. A sad smile crossed his face.

  The Closer started moving things down to his van.

  Jack was very, very careful.

  He checked the van for bugs. He took the freeway out of Vancouver and made sure he wasn’t followed. He found a run-down little place in Surrey and rented it, made arrangements for utilities, and paid a visit to the local hardware store. It was slightly more difficult without Nikki to provide that extra buffer between himself and the rest of the world, but he managed. It wasn’t all that hard to travel through the modern world like a phantom, not as long as people still took cash. Money that folded had a short memory.

  And then he shut out his surroundings. Shut out sounds, smells, memories, anything but the screen in front of him. It was time to go back to work.

  He looked through Djinn-X’s files on recruiting, studied his notes on past applicants and reasons they didn’t make the cut. The final initiation had only been offered to a few, and Djinn-X had exhaustively analyzed those that hadn’t passed, looking for hidden clues that might have revealed their insincerity beforehand.

  What it always came down to was evidence. The test that Djinn-X had come up with was simple and foolproof… and Jack couldn’t use it. He would have to devise something else.

  DJINN-X: Tell me about your first kill.

  RED ED: It was a hitchhiker. I picked her up on the hiway outside of town on a friday night and I was already Pissed off. My boss hates me and I hate her but I cant afford to quit. This woman was blond like my boss and I was thinking about how much I hate all those Bitches so after driving for a while I stopped and pretended somthing was wrong with the car. I asked her to help when I was looking under the hood and when she did I slammed the hood shut on her head. She started Screaming and it sounded all weerd and echoed under the hood. She couldnt get out and her one arm was trapped but she was kicking like crazy. I couldn’t let go of the hood or she would have got away so I stabbed her with a screwdriver I had with me. I stabbed her in the side over and over and she took a long time to go. I put the body in my trunk and had to piss on the side of the car to wash off the blood so I wouldnt get pulld over.

  DJINN-X: What did you do with the body?

  RED ED: I buried it
in a field. I cant say exacly where but I could show you.

  DJINN-X: That’s not how we do things. It’s too dangerous to meet face-to-face. You’ll have to send me proof.

  RED ED: Ok. What do you want?

  DJINN-X: Pictures. And a hand from the corpse.

  RED ED: I gess I can dig her up and do that. Ok. Just tell me where to send them.

  DJINN-X: I’ll get back to you with a drop point.

  Jack wasn’t sure what he should do. Red Ed sounded genuine… but that meant nothing. And anyone could dig up a grave, take a few pictures, chop a hand off a corpse. He needed to be sure.

  When in doubt, turn to the experts. Jack went back to the Stalking Ground.

  He reviewed firsthand accounts of execution and body disposal. He compiled a list of last words, read descriptions of the death rattle. He looked at downloaded photos and video. He studied methods, details, commonalities. He tried to put together, in his head, a comprehensive overview of the act of murder …then compared it to his own experience.

  While he was still assimilating, the Patron contacted him.

  PATRON: Hello, Jack. A shame you bolted like that—I wasn’t really going to kill you, you know. You’re my greatest success.

  CLOSER: Why is that?

  PATRON: Because of all of the artists I’ve influenced, you’re the only one to follow in my footsteps. You and I work in the same medium: pain.

  CLOSER: To very different ends.

  PATRON: I disagree. We both create suffering in order to reveal truth. Your technique is simply less refined than mine… you’re too focused on specifics, on control. My methods allow for free will. I let my subjects express themselves however they want. You’re a craftsman, but you could be so much more.

  CLOSER: My goal is to end pain, not increase it. PATRON: I’m sure you believe that. But that’s simply not the way things work… everyone has a dark side, Jack. We keep it suppressed through a process of indoctrination, a set of civilized rules of behavior. Once you break those rules, that dark side begins to emerge—and the process always accelerates. A good profiler like yourself knows this; you’ve seen it time and time again. Do you think you’re somehow immune to the process? That your own taste for torture hasn’t been increasing? If you value honesty so much, be honest with yourself.

  CLOSER: I will if you will.

  PATRON: Certainly. What would you like to know? My name, address, a convenient time to stop by? CLOSER: Tell me about Sam.

  PATRON: Jack. You surprise me. All that coyness and denial, gone in an instant. Not that I ever had any doubts.

  CLOSER: The question proves my identity, and therefore my honesty. Answer it.

  PATRON: Are you sure you want to venture into that territory, Jack? After all, you said your goal is to end pain, not increase it.

  CLOSER: You don’t understand me or my goals. Nothing you can say about my son can hurt me or him any further.

  PATRON: I know, I know—you simply want closure. But Jack—if I give you that, it destroys that wonderful creative tension that drives you. I’m sorry, but I just can’t do that. If you want answers, you’ll have to come and get them….

  However, you were honest with me, so I’m going to be honest with you: I don’t intend to kill you, Jack.

  I have much bigger plans.

  There were other problems.

  Djinn-X had a built-in system for mail drops; he could simply route them through the courier business he worked for and pretend to deliver them to a fictitious address. Jack would have to arrange an actual location—and even if he used the intercept method he’d suggested to the Gourmet, there was still a chance he could be set up.

  He finally hit on something he thought might work. It would take some scouting and was a little risky, but he thought he could pull it off.

  It would have been easier if Nikki were still around.

  The restaurant was called Bon’s Off Broadway, a small but busy restaurant on Vancouver’s east side. The waitress behind the cash register looked up as the front door opened, and saw a delivery driver in a brown uniform, carrying a padded envelope under one arm.

  “Delivery for—actually, it just says, ‘owner,’ ” the driver said.

  “Just a second,” the waitress, Julia, said. “Bon?”

  Bon, a Chinese man with a broad, smiling face, hurried up. “Yes? What’s going on?”

  “Delivery,” Julia said. She was a tall brunette, with spiky black hair and a mermaid tattoo on her arm. “Expecting something?”

  “No, I’m not expecting anything,” Bon said. “What is it?”

  “Beats me,” the driver said. “Sign here and you can find out.”

  Bon scrawled his signature while Julia examined the envelope. “Says it’s from Idaho,” she said.

  “Idaho? I don’t know anyone in Idaho,” Bon said. The driver was already gone.

  Bon shrugged, then looked at the shipping label. “Well, it’s the right address,” he said. “From someplace called ‘FX Labs.’ Let’s see what it is.”

  He ripped open the envelope. There were two things inside: a videotape, and a sealed plastic Baggie. Clearly visible within was a human hand.

  “Gross!” Julia said, laughing. “You got a new special on the menu?”

  “I know what this is,” Bon said, shaking his head and grinning. “It’s those guys from that movie. They said they were going to make me famous!” Vancouver hosted so many film productions it was known as Hollywood North; people in the industry often found themselves sitting in one of Bon’s booths or on one of his many mismatched chairs. Movie posters and memorabilia covered the walls.

  “Is there a note?” Julia asked.

  “No.” Bon frowned, then slipped the Baggie underneath the counter so customers wouldn’t see it. “Just a joke, I’m sure….”

  They went back to work. About an hour and a half later, a man in a suit entered through the back door that led to the parking lot. He walked up to Bon and said, “Uh, excuse me? Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure, what can I do for you?” Bon beamed at him; he treated all his customers like they were regulars.

  “I was just wondering if a package might have been delivered here by mistake.”

  Bon squinted at him, grinned. “Depends. What was in it?”

  “Well—a fake hand. And some pictures.”

  Bon laughed, clapped the man on the back. “Aha! So you’re the one! We were wondering what the heck that was all about!”

  The man smiled sheepishly. He was in his thirties, clean-shaven, tie loosened around his collar. “Yeah, sorry about that. It’s from a special-effects place in the States, they’re doing a little work for us. TV pilot.”

  “Sure, sure. No problem. I’ll go get it.” Bon led the man to the counter, pulled out the bag and video. “No pictures, though—just this tape.”

  “Oh, right, that makes sense. They were going to send me some stills, but I guess they went ahead with the footage instead. Thanks.”

  “No problem!”

  The man left the way he’d arrived, through the back.

  Jack had arrived early, checked for possible surveillance. There didn’t seem to be any. He parked across the street, watched the delivery happen through the glass front door, and studied the customers coming and going for ninety minutes. If the place was being watched by the police, he couldn’t tell.

  Finally, he’d gone in and gotten the package. Nobody swooped in to arrest him. He hadn’t expected a videotape; the first thing he’d done when he got back in the van was crack it open with a pair of pliers. There was no tracking device he could see, nor was anything hidden in the flesh of the hand. He drove back to Surrey, stopping along the way to pick up a secondhand VCR and TV at a pawnshop.

  Once home, he hooked up the TV equipment and repaired the casing of the video with some duct tape. When he was satisfied that it would run, he slipped it in and hit Play.

  Black screen. Words in red appeared: Ad mala patrat haec sunt atra theatra
parata. Apparently Red Ed was trying to make up for his lack of eloquence online by impressing Djinn-X with his knowledge of Latin.

  A shot of a young woman, naked, tied with her hands over her head in what looked like a barn. Light was provided by a single bare bulb hanging from an extension cord. Another figure entered the frame, dressed in white painter’s overalls, rubber boots, workman’s gloves and a green rubber mask. The mask featured a wide-open mouth crammed with white fangs and a foot-long tongue that hung down to mid-chest like an obscene pink tie. The eyes were insectile, bulging orbs made of some holographic material that rippled with rainbow color.

  The masked man advanced on the woman. He had a hedge trimmer in his gloved hands.

  The tape ran just over an hour. There was no sound. The camera, obviously on a tripod, never moved. There was only one, continuous shot, though sometimes the masked man moved behind the camera to change the focus. The footage was graphic and bloody and didn’t stop with the woman’s death.

  When he was done, the masked man held up a sign, obviously prepared beforehand: HOPE I PASSED THE AUDITION. The tape ended.

  Jack rewound it and watched it again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  He’d killed her.

  Jack watched the tape over and over, compulsively. There was no denying it. It was there, it was real, it had happened. He watched the masked man reach into the woman’s belly and pull out handfuls of her guts while she screamed and writhed. It might be possible to fake something like that, but it would have taken an expert, a large budget and weeks of prep time. No, there was no doubt in his mind.

  He’d killed her.

  If the masked man had raped her, he’d done it off camera. His intention here was simply to cause massive bodily harm, and to prolong it as long as he could. He showed little restraint.