by Chris Mooney
Five minutes later, she was behind the wheel of her rental, with the case file and the pharmacies’ addresses lying on the passenger’s seat.
44
Baylor Apothecary was the closest, located inside the ground floor of a small brick-faced building right around the corner from Cindy’s Diner. The windows were dark, but the pharmacy was still in business. Darby pressed her face against the glass and in the gloom she could make out fully stocked aisles. Baylor’s opened every morning at eight. She’d have to wait until tomorrow.
She had better luck at the Rite Aid on the other side of town, off the main highway, Route 6. It was in a strip mall that at one point in time had included a Blockbuster video store and a discount lumber liquidator. The snow had picked up, growing in intensity. A white blanket covered the two cars in the lot.
The inside of the pharmacy was brightly lit and eerily quiet, as though it had suddenly been abandoned. It was also uncomfortably warm. Darby unzipped her jacket as she made her way to the back with the case file for the Connelly family pinched between the fingers of her left hand.
The pharmacist was a thickset middle-aged woman with a button nose and brittle black hair that had thinned to the point that her scalp was visible. Her nametag read BARBARA.
‘Evening,’ Darby said pleasantly. ‘I need your help with a medication called neomycin – the oral antibiotic and not the topical treatment.’
Barbara smiled as she turned to the computer. ‘Your name?’
‘Not me. One of your male customers.’ Darby showed her federal ID, and the woman’s smile collapsed. ‘His first name is Tim or Timothy.’
‘Do you have a court order?’ The woman’s attention was glued to the butt-end of the 9-millimetre tucked inside Darby’s shoulder holster. ‘I can’t help you without a court order.’
‘The FBI are getting it together. All I need to know is whether or not you have a man named Tim or Timothy in your system who gets his neomycin prescription filled here. If he is, great, I’ll come back with the court order. If he isn’t, then I’ll get out of your hair.’
Barbara was shaking her head the entire time. ‘I can’t tell you anything unless you have a court order,’ she said. ‘HIPAA and the state’s Medical Information Act prevent me from sharing any information regarding a person’s –’
‘I understand.’ Darby had expected to encounter this reaction. During the drive, she had come up with a way around it – provided she could get Barbara the Pharmacist to agree to play along. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t explain myself correctly. My fault. You live here in Red Hill?’
‘Why?’
‘Are you familiar with the Red Hill Ripper?’
Barbara didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The skin of the woman’s face flexed and tightened against the bone.
‘You can see why I’m anxious to see if this man is in your system,’ Darby said patiently. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything illegal. I just need to know whether or not this man is one of your customers.’
‘I’m just … I should really talk to my supervisor.’
‘I understand. But while you’re on the phone – while you and I are standing here, talking about rules and procedures, the Red Hill Ripper is planning on doing this to another family.’
Darby brought out her folder, her finger marking the spot she needed. She opened it and showed the woman a close-up of the noose wrapped around Linda Connelly’s neck, the skin swollen, bloated and purple.
The photo had the desired effect. Barbara the Pharmacist’s breath caught in her throat and she backed up slightly, wincing. Her attention swung to the pharmacy computer.
‘Just tell me if he’s in there,’ Darby said. ‘There’s no law against that, right?’
‘I … Well, no, I don’t think so.’ Barbara looked around uneasily, to see if anyone was nearby.
‘I really appreciate you helping the Bureau out on this,’ Darby said. ‘Thank you.’
The phone behind the counter rang.
Barbara looked relieved. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ she said.
As the woman hustled away, Darby stared at the computer on the counter. The Red Hill Ripper’s name and address could be just a few mouse clicks away. She wanted to jump over the counter.
Then the pharmacist’s head snapped to Darby. The woman’s features had gone slack, and the blood drained from her face. The person on the other end of the line said something that made her flinch. A low, guttural moan escaped her lips and she yanked the phone away from her ear.
‘He knows where I live,’ the pharmacist said, her voice stripped of colour.
‘Who?’
‘The man on the phone. At least I think it’s a man. His voice sounds … He sounds like he’s speaking through a computer.’
Barbara charged forward, her heavy footsteps pounding against the floor. ‘He said he was going to use a special knot on me.’ She held the cordless away from her as though she were carrying a snake. ‘He wants to talk to you.’
Darby dropped the file on the counter and took the phone. He must’ve followed me here, she thought as she moved across an aisle stocked with diapers and baby formula and jars of food. But how? She hadn’t seen anyone following her.
The front door came into view and Darby saw a young, pony-tailed guy minding a cash register, reading a weight-lifting magazine. He lowered it and watched her with curiosity and a growing alarm.
She brought the phone up to her ear. ‘McCormick.’
The disguised voice on the other end of the line spoke through a burst of static. ‘My girl,’ he said, and then let out a long moan, like someone riding the swell of an orgasm.
Darby couldn’t see the main road or much of the parking lot behind the curtains of snow, but she could make out her car, the driver’s side door hanging open.
‘I can’t wait until we get together. I’m gonna split you in half.’
Click.
Darby placed the cordless on a shelf stocked with discount boxes of Christmas cards. She took out her nine and from the corner of her eye saw the cashier drop his magazine, his face pale with shock.
She doubted the Red Hill Ripper was somewhere outside waiting for her to come out. He wanted to take her, and he would do it when she didn’t expect it, when she wouldn’t be able to see him coming. He wouldn’t call to alert her of his presence, and he wouldn’t make a move on her here, in a public place, with two potential witnesses. He had called because he wanted to remind her of his superiority. He wanted her to feel dread. She pushed open the doors and went outside.
Footsteps led away from her car. They were covered by snow; there wouldn’t be any way to get a mould of the impressions. Gun in hand, Darby slowly advanced to her car, snow flying into her face and the wind blowing her hair. The interior light was on; she moved around the open door, looked inside at her seat and saw two pieces of blue nylon rope speckled with white and red wrapped together to form a surgeon’s knot.
When I turn left on to Sidewinder Road, I’m relieved to find it freshly ploughed. I had my doubts: the town’s four snowploughs, which have been out working since eight or so, might’ve skipped this street, since no one lives here any more.
There is the long trailer, still attached to the semi; both are parked near the kerb outside the Downes home, looking as small as toys from my driver’s seat. I kill my headlights and then creep forward slowly. Light glows from the trailer’s tiny side windows.
I pull against a ridge of freshly ploughed snow, put the car in park and leave the engine running. If everything goes right, I’ll be back here in only a few minutes.
I step out of the car with the backpack gripped in my hand. I’m wearing a fleece hat underneath the hood of my coat, but even under all those layers I can still hear the deep, rumbling throb of the semi’s big diesel engine, which is providing power for the lights and whatever other equipment is being used in there.
I cross the street and start running towards the trailer with the backpack hugged against my ches
t to keep its contents from accidentally breaking. By the time I reach the trailer’s back doors, the sound of the diesel has become near-deafening, and I can feel the ground vibrating beneath the soles of my boots.
I know the trailer belongs to the FBI: the FBI insignia, lettering and words MOBILE FORENSICS UNIT were prominently displayed in big, bold lettering on its side. It was parked here late yesterday afternoon. Yesterday a ramp descended from the back to allow the agents to come and go as they pleased.
Tonight the ramp is gone, rolled back underneath the trailer. But the side door has a short set of metal steps, all of which are covered in snow. After I lay the backpack on the ground, near one of the rear tyres, I unzip my coat, remove the .44 Magnum tucked in the front waistband of my jeans and make my way across the length of the trailer to the side door, ducking underneath the small windows. My hands, protected by only a thin layer of latex, are already cold, and my knuckles and joints ache.
I want to take them by surprise, if possible, so I mount the steps slowly and carefully. The handle feels ice-cold as I slowly turn it. I don’t encounter any resistance, and when I hear the lock click back I throw open the door; as it swings to my right I raise my Magnum and dart inside the trailer.
For the next few seconds time seems to slow, as if what I’m seeing has been captured inside a tableau: a big man with a shaved head sitting with his back to me and hunched over a counter; a second man who is much smaller and wearing ear-bud headphones attached to the iPod clipped to his belt. I immediately aim at the short man. He sees me and is reaching for the side-arm clipped to his belt when I pull the trigger.
The Magnum kicks; the roar of the gunshot explodes inside my head as the round hits the man square in the chest, spraying the doors behind him with a bright red mist. The bald guy is stumbling to his feet when I turn the gun on him and fire.
The wind slams the door shut behind me and my eardrums are ringing as I move to the bald guy. He’s writhing on the floor, blood pouring out of his mouth and nose. He looks up at me questioningly, about to speak, when I shoot him in the head. I’m ducking around the counter and forensics equipment, when I notice a can of liquid nitrogen, which may prove very useful. I walk over to the small guy and examine the exit wound in his back: it’s the size of a basketball but he’s still moving, trembling, his arm reaching out for the Glock lying on the floor. I fire another round into his back and then I use the remaining rounds to shoot out the windows.
The refrigerator in the corner isn’t locked. I open it and find all the blood samples collected from the hardwood floor sitting on the shelves. I remove everything, throwing it against the floor and then smashing the glass vials with my boots. I head to the back doors, open them and jump out.
Backpack in my hand, I jog next to the side of the trailer and mount the stairs again. My hands are shaking when I place the backpack on the counter and work the zipper – not out of fear but from the cold. I’m no longer afraid. The tables have turned. I have a way out of this.
Gasoline fumes rise from the backpack as I remove the BIC lighter from my jacket pocket. I remove the first Molotov cocktail, ignite the gasoline-soaked wick and toss it against the crushed glass and blood smeared across the floor. The glass bottle explodes in flames, and I can feel heat as strong as a fist punching me. I remove the second Molotov, ignite it and throw it against the counter where the bald man had been sitting, doing DNA testing. I throw the third towards the back and the fourth and last one against the floor in the middle of the trailer. The heat is stifling as I grab the backpack and exit through the side door.
The trailer is burning nicely. I could wait for the flames to ignite the liquid nitrogen and all the other chemicals stored in there, which would blow everything to kingdom come; or I could use the last item stored inside my backpack, a long piece of gasoline-soaked cloth and make quick work of it.
It takes me a moment to find the cap for the gas tank. I remove it and then stuff the wet cloth into the hole. I can feel the heat from the flames rocketing out of the windows when I light the last wick and run across the street, heading for my car and thinking about my next and, God willing, last stop.
45
Darby entered the Wagon Wheel Saloon at quarter past ten. Last night’s Bible Belt crowd had been replaced with the kind of people she’d grown up with in Boston, blue-collar types and roughnecks who passed around bottles and pitchers of beer, everyone drinking, eating and laughing in an atmosphere that reminded her of a Roman banquet. The dining-room was at full capacity and the pool-room was packed with young guys in their twenties, the juke playing The Who’s ‘Pinball Wizard’.
For the next half hour, in the uncomfortably close atmosphere reeking of spilled beer, testosterone and sweat, deodorant and cologne, she interviewed the bartender and waitresses about any customer or local who may have smelled like fish or garbage. Coming up empty-handed, she moved to the pool-room and put the same question to a group of college-aged guys who had the collective IQ of a balloon. Most didn’t listen to her, their gazes listless and their attention elsewhere, as they wondered what she looked like naked, she supposed, or how she’d be in the sack.
When she struck out with them, she went to tackle the dining crowd and found Coop standing by the corner of the bar, his chest rising and falling as he sucked in air. His nostrils were wide and white around the edges, and as she drew closer she could see his eyes glowing with the atavistic intensity of a boxer who was about to step into the ring and unload all of his dark energies.
Darby cleared her throat several times. She felt like a rock was lodged there.
‘I was going to tell you, Coop.’
Coop said nothing. Darby couldn’t meet his eyes. She turned her head, folded her arms on the bar and pretended to read the labels on a row of vodka bottles.
‘Well? ’
‘Lancaster knew the autopsies had been rescheduled for this morning,’ Darby said. ‘He –’
‘You had no proof of that when you cold-cocked him – in an autopsy room.’
‘Guys like Lancaster lose a piece of their brain every time they sit on a toilet. You want a guy like that spearheading an investigation like this?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Sometimes you’ve got to stick their dicks into a socket to rewire their thinking.’
Coop’s head looked like it was about to explode.
‘He’s been screwing with us ever since we got here,’ Darby said. ‘The autopsies were the cherry on the sundae.’
Coop leaned sideways against the bar. ‘The guy’s an asshole. Everyone knows he’s an asshole; it’s an established fact. You’ve dealt with your fair share of career-climbing dicks who use cases as political leverage, pencil-pushers and bureaucratic cocksuckers who get off on napalming your work. But not once have you ever clocked one in public – at least not that I’m aware of. Then again, I’m learning all sorts of new and interesting things about your behaviour.’
‘Like Williams says, Teddy Lancaster brings out the best in people.’
Coop dug his tongue hard into one of his back molars and took a deep breath through his nose. ‘Lancaster decided not to press criminal charges, obviously, or we’d be having this conversation inside a holding cell,’ he said. ‘A civil case, well, that’s another matter. He’ll go after you first. He’ll go after the Bureau, because we hired you and because we’ve got the deeper pockets. Lancaster will get a nice little payout to keep his mouth shut, and then the Bureau will need to make an example of someone, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be Terry Hoder. Before you went all Mike Tyson on him, did you once stop to consider how poorly this would reflect on me?’
‘I lost my cool.’
‘No shit. Why? What happened?’
‘He said something to me privately.’
‘What? What did he say?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘You just tossed a Molotov on to my career, and you’re not going to tell me why?’
Darby s
wallowed. Cleared her throat.
‘It’s done, Coop.’ And I don’t regret it either, she added to herself.
Darby could feel his eyes burrowing into the side of her face. When he spoke again, his voice vacillated between rage and disbelief.
‘I went to the station looking for you. To give you this.’ Coop placed a satellite phone on the bar. ‘Hoder said you were at the station. After he filled me in on what was going on, knowing you, I figured you’d come here to ask around about this Timmy character. Little did we know you were at a Rite Aid. So you can imagine my surprise when that 911 call came through. The kid working the cash register called it in, in case you’re wondering.’
‘I showed him and the pharmacist my ID,’ Darby said. ‘After it was all over, I told them they had nothing to worry about.’
‘That’s not the point. You sneaked out of the station and tried to put the screws on the pharmacist.’
‘I was following up on our lead.’
‘You went alone. You’re not supposed to go anywhere alone and, worse, after what went down you didn’t call it in. The guy you spoke to, was he the same one who called you last night at the hotel?’
‘I’m pretty sure. Voice was altered.’
‘So why didn’t you call it in?’
‘Do you think he was standing around waiting after he left the rope in my car?’
‘What rope?’ Coop asked.
Darby realized that, in her exhausted state, she hadn’t told anyone about it. She had gone straight to the Wagon Wheel after leaving the Rite Aid.
‘While I was inside the pharmacy, he was inside my car. He left the door hanging open, and when I went outside I found two pieces of rope tied into a surgeon’s knot lying on my car seat.’
Coop looked away, blinking. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’
‘It’s in an evidence bag in the trunk of my car – not that we’re going to find anything on it.’
‘There’s a thing called procedure, remember? You follow procedure in order to build a case, and you have to build a case in order to –’