Watch Me (Jefferson Winter 2)

by James Carol

  I shook my head. ‘There’s no way this guy would make a mistake like that. He’s into overkill, remember. His first three victims were most definitely dead. There was no grey whatsoever. It was totally black and white. Two shot in the head, one burnt alive. Believe me, if he’d wanted Taylor dead, he’d be dead. Secondly, and this is the clincher, if he wanted Taylor dead, why leave him in the recovery position? You don’t do that if your endgame is to kill someone, you do that if you want to keep someone’s airway open and make sure they don’t choke on their own blood or vomit.’

  Hannah said nothing. She had a faraway look on her face, like she’d slipped back into the storeroom.

  ‘Hannah,’ I said, sharply. ‘I need you here.’ I softened my voice, then added, ‘Taylor needs you here.’

  ‘What if he dies, Winter? I don’t think I could live without him. And don’t tell me that won’t happen. I saw the way the paramedics were looking at him.’

  I stopped walking and turned to face her, placed a gentle hand on her arm. ‘If he dies, then at some point you’ll want closure. The only way that’s going to happen is if we catch this asshole. You’ve chosen to be here, which means a part of you understands that. However, if you’re going to be any use to me I need you to actually be here. If you can’t do that, then say the word and I’ll drive you over to the hospital right now.’

  For a while we just stood there in the searing heat and stared at each other. Sweat was trickling down my sides and back. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and it came away soaked. The muscles in Hannah’s face were tight and her lips were two thin strips. There was a battle going on behind those eyes. She wanted to be with Taylor and she wanted to help me catch this bastard, but she couldn’t do both and that was tearing her apart.

  ‘Okay, why didn’t he kill Taylor?’ Hannah’s voice was so low I could barely hear her.

  ‘Because he thought we’d go to the hospital with him. If we’re at the hospital, sitting there waiting to hear if he’s going to pull through or not, then we’re not hunting him. Even if I didn’t go, he reckoned I’d be knocked off my game. Anyway that’s not the important question.’

  ‘So what’s the important question?’

  I guided Hannah over to a patch of sidewalk where there was a modicum of shade. The temperature dropped by a couple of degrees, which was nothing when it was a hundred plus.

  ‘Why now? He staged Choat’s death to make it look like a suicide, and everyone seemed happy with that explanation. So everyone relaxes, lets out a great big sigh of relief. The cops have a dead bad guy and a story that makes sense. The unsub buys himself some time and space to work out what to do next. But then he goes and attacks Taylor. What’s the point in staging Choat’s suicide then going and doing that? As far as the cops are concerned I’d solved the case and I was about to head off into the sunset. The unsub should have just lain low, but he didn’t. Why?’

  ‘Because he knew we’d worked out it was a hoax.’

  ‘Exactly. But how did the unsub know we’d worked it out? We were careful. It wasn’t like we advertised the fact. The way I see it there’s only one possibility that makes sense. The car’s bugged.’

  Hannah glanced over at the cop car, then looked at me like I was crazy. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘Never been more serious. Either it’s hidden under the driver’s seat or under the passenger seat. The unsub will have gone in from the rear seats, though. To make it harder to find. Usually it’s only the bad guys who ride in the back of cop cars, and they don’t tend to be rummaging around under the seats looking for bugs. Everyone else travels up front. If he’d hidden the bug under the dash or in the glove box then that would increase the likelihood of it being found.’

  Hannah just stared at me.

  ‘There is another alternative. Either you or Taylor told him, because I know I didn’t.’

  ‘And I can tell you for nothing that neither Taylor nor I have breathed a word.’

  ‘So the car’s bugged. It all comes back to Occam’s razor: the simplest explanation is usually the solution. You said yourself that the unsub is one step ahead of us. If he’s listening in to our conversations then that would explain how he’s managing to do that.’

  ‘Okay, assuming you’re correct, why the car?’

  ‘It’s not just the car. He’s probably got my room at the Imperial bugged, too. But that one doesn’t count because I’ve been staying at your place.’

  Hannah thought this over, then nodded to herself like she’d come to some sort of decision. ‘We can use my car.’

  ‘Not a good idea. If we do that then the unsub will know we’re on to him. For now, we just need to be careful what we say when we’re in the car.’

  I smoked my cigarette and tried to ignore the heat while I considered my next move. Then I thought about the moves I’d already made, and the assumptions I’d made that had led us to this point. I homed in on one particular assumption, and the more I thought about it, the bigger it grew, until it was all I could think about.

  Despite the fact that my skin felt like it was on fire, a cold wind was blowing through me. A house built on shifting sand was a disaster waiting to happen. Except, in this case, the disaster had already happened. The fact that Taylor was fighting for his life bore testament to that.

  ‘I got it all wrong,’ I whispered to myself. ‘This guy is not a serial killer.’

  56

  ‘If he’s not a serial killer, then what is he?’

  Hannah was staring at me, waiting for an answer. We were still outside, about fifty yards from the car. Far enough away so that any listening device wouldn’t pick up what we were saying. The sun was burning down furiously and my skin was melting.

  ‘He’s just a murderer.’

  ‘Just a murderer,’ Hannah echoed in a dead whisper. There was no emotion, no inflections. ‘You make it sound like he’s a grocery bagger.’

  ‘This is good news, Hannah. It changes everything. And it gets better, too. This isn’t a hot-blooded murderer we’re dealing with, remember, this guy premeditates, which means we’re dealing with one of the big three motives: revenge, money or belief.’

  I was thinking out loud, talking at the speed of my thoughts.

  ‘We need to take another look at the victims. We can forget about Choat and our homeless John Doe because they were victims of circumstance. Those two can be filed away under wrong place, wrong time. Sam Galloway is a different matter, though. He was very much in the right place at the right time. All we’ve got to do is work out why Sam was murdered and we’ll have this guy nailed.’

  I turned and walked quickly back to the car. For the first time since arriving in Eagle Creek I felt we had a handle on this thing. In more innocent times my father had taught me to hunt. What I remembered most was that feeling when you finally picked up the scent of your prey, the way your blood turned hot. That’s how I felt now. My blood was hot and I had the scent of prey in my nostrils.

  Hannah was matching my speed step for step. Physically she was right beside me, but mentally and spiritually she was locked in her own private hell. I had a good idea what she was going through, but I wasn’t kidding myself that I knew how she felt. Grief was such a personal thing. It was different for everyone.

  We reached the car. I pushed a finger against my lips and shook my head, waited until Hannah nodded that she’d got the message. Then I opened the back door and pretended to rummage around on the seat. I glanced under the driver’s seat and saw nothing, glanced under the passenger seat and saw a small black box attached to the underside. It was half the size of a cigarette pack, maybe smaller. There were no blinking lights, and it didn’t have any distinctive markings. It didn’t have any markings. It was just a plain black box. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I would never have found it.

  I got in and started the car. Hannah was already buckled into the passenger seat. She asked a question with her eyes and I nodded to her seat. Her eyes widened with surprise
and she shook her head in disbelief. I pictured a map of Eagle Creek and plotted the quickest route to McArthur Heights, then put the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb.

  We shared some small talk for the first mile or so. Hannah was good. She sounded natural without sounding contrived, and she didn’t give anything away. I imagined the unsub listening in. Would he know what we were up to? I didn’t think so.

  He might not know what we were up to, but he’d work out where we were going soon enough. All cop cars were fitted with tracking devices, even this far out into the middle of nowhere.

  We drifted into a silence that was as natural and uncontrived as the small talk. After what had happened to Taylor, it would be understandable for Hannah to be quiet. This was something that worked in our favour, possibly the only positive in a situation that was overloaded with negatives. The less talk, the less chance there was of us giving anything away.

  While I drove, I thought about Taylor lying on that dirt-streaked concrete floor and the memory of blood filled my mouth. The what-ifs pushed in on me, and I pushed them back. It would be easy to make this my fault. Way too easy, and pointless. What would it achieve? Nothing. Sinking into a pit of self-incrimination and guilt was not going to change what had happened. If anything, it would make things worse since I wouldn’t be able to do my job.

  A cellphone went, the ringtone muted. It wasn’t mine. My first thought was that the unsub had hidden a phone in the car and was calling to taunt us. Except that didn’t fit with his profile. This unsub wasn’t like Chief Kalani’s talent-show reject He wasn’t looking for recognition or headlines. He flew way below the radar.

  Hannah was fumbling around in the passenger seat. She pulled a cellphone from her jeans and the ringtone brightened. She connected the call and said ‘Hi’. I only got half the conversation, but it was enough to work out that she was talking to Taylor’s mother. Taylor had arrived at the hospital in Shreveport and been rushed into surgery. He was expected to be there for a while. Hannah asked for an update as soon as there was anything, then hung up.

  She sat for a moment, staring out the windshield, gazing into the middle distance. The phone was clutched tightly in her hand, and she was tapping it against her leg in a way that made me doubt she was aware she was doing it. Her left leg was vibrating from all the adrenaline. It was like she was dreaming of running away. Maybe she was dreaming of San Francisco. If she was, I hoped Taylor was with her.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s still alive.’

  ‘Which is a good thing, right?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s a good thing.’ Hannah’s voice was flat and she didn’t sound convinced. Not because she didn’t think it was a good thing, but because she was wishing and praying that none of this had ever happened. ‘The next few hours are going to be critical,’ she added. ‘If he gets through that then he might be okay.’

  We fell into an awkward silence. Hannah had made no attempt to disguise how big that ‘if’ was. By the sounds of things, Taylor needed a miracle. The problem was that miracles didn’t exist. I wanted to tell myself that he was getting the best treatment possible but that would be a lie. This was northern Louisiana. Shreveport was a city, home to 200,000 people, but however good the medical facilities were, you had hospitals out there that were a damn sight better. Johns Hopkins in Maryland and Massachusetts General up in Boston sprung immediately to mind.

  We passed through the town limits and left the houses behind. Trees and fields stretched as far as the eye could see, the leaves glowing in the sunlight.

  While I drove, I thought about what might be motivating this guy. Revenge? Money? Belief completed the trinity, and I considered that for a split second before ruling it out. If the unsub had been part of a terrorist group or some ultra right-wing organisation he would have chosen a target that tied into his agenda, whatever that was. Al-Qaeda attacked the American Dream. It wanted to make grand statements and grab headlines. That’s why they hijacked passenger jets and flew them into buildings. That’s why they sent suicide bombers into places where they knew innocent people would be killed.

  Sam Galloway just didn’t fit. He dealt in divorces and wills. There was no real statement to be made from his murder, no headlines to be grabbed. His death might be big news in Eagle Creek, but it would only merit a couple of minutes on the regional news, and would probably be passed over altogether by the national news. As for the international news channels, forget it. The only people who were going to get all teary about Sam being burnt alive were his wife, kids and friends.

  57

  We reached the wide tree-lined streets of McArthur Heights and cruised slowly through the heat. Everything up here was about personal space and personal wealth, and letting the world know how important you were. I turned into the Galloways’ driveway and stopped in front of the tall, imposing wrought-iron gates. The window buzzed down and the hot air rushed in. I reached through and hit the buzzer.

  Silence was replaced by static, and a voice asked, ‘Can I help you?’

  It was the same voice as before, the sound through the small speaker just as distorted. This time I knew it was the maid straightaway. The rhythm of the voice was all wrong for Barbara Galloway.

  ‘Jefferson Winter to see Mrs Galloway.’

  ‘One minute, please.’

  I closed the window. It had been open for less than forty seconds, but that was long enough for all the cold air to get sucked out. One minute stretched into two and it had reached the point where I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever be let in when the gates slowly swung open.

  We headed along the driveway, undulating plains of pristine green grass stretching out on either side of us. The house looked even more perfect than yesterday. The paintwork seemed whiter, the windows gleamed more brightly, and everything was just somehow more real, but real in a way that made it feel artificial. It reminded me of a film set. If I looked around the back I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a wooden frame.

  I drove around to the side of the house and parked in the same spot as yesterday. The Mercedes hadn’t moved. We got out and walked around to the front. The maid was waiting for us in the open doorway. She welcomed us with a ‘good afternoon’ and asked us to follow her. We went inside, into the cool gloom, our footsteps echoing through the house’s large reflective spaces.

  Barbara Galloway was waiting in the same room as yesterday. She appeared momentarily perplexed by my appearance, then her conditioning kicked in and she offered a polite hello. She was acting like having someone who looked as if they’d been dragged from a car wreck turn up on her doorstep was an everyday occurrence.

  Her gaze followed me across the room, all the way to the Steinway. I laid a hand on the lacquered wood. It felt cool to the touch. ‘Do you mind?’ I asked.

  It took a second for her to work out what I was asking. There was confusion in her eyes. Hannah was looking puzzled too. For a moment I was convinced that Barbara was going to say no, but her conditioning kicked in and she nodded her assent.

  I sat down on the stool and rattled off a couple of quick scales. The piano was more or less in tune, but the acoustics in the room were atrocious. The walls were smooth, the floors uncarpeted, the ceiling too high. It was a musician’s nightmare. All those large, shiny unbroken surfaces created too many aural reflections. The notes hung too long in the air, clashing with one another and creating an unpleasant wave of dissonance.

  Like everything else in this room, the Steinway was for show. Maybe one of the kids had piano lessons once, and maybe the Galloways had bought this piano to encourage them. If that was the case, then I didn’t doubt for a second that their intentions had been good, but the truth was that anyone who was halfway serious about their playing would not have put the piano in this room, and they would have made damn sure that an instrument this fine was kept in tune.

  I stretched my fingers and went straight into Mozart’s Turkish Rondo. To make up for the dreadful acoustics, I played the piec
e pianissimo throughout. Less volume meant fewer reflections. The tune was bright and cheerful and completely wrong for the mood of the room. Hannah and Barbara were both locked into their own little pockets of despair, and I was filling the gaps in the darkness with playful bursts of sound.

  I was six when my mother taught this to me. I remember sitting on the stool beside her, concentrating furiously on the dots on the page, working my way through the piece a bar at a time, my mother encouraging me when I needed encouragement and making suggestions when I struggled with the trickier phrases. Once I’d gone through it a couple of times, I didn’t require the music any more. If I needed to see the dots all I had to do was shut my eyes and they’d be lit up inside my head.

  After half an hour of practising, I still couldn’t get it right. All the notes were in the correct place, all the phrases were note perfect, but there was something wrong and I couldn’t work out what. My mother must have sensed my frustration because she told me to stop and look at her. She smiled, then touched the side of her head. ‘Music doesn’t come from here, Jefferson.’ She tapped the left side of her chest. ‘It comes from here. Always remember that.’

  She told me to scoot over. Then she placed her hands gently on the keys, shut her eyes and started playing. The notes were exactly the same as the ones I’d been playing, the phrases identical, but that’s where the similarities ended. Her fingers flew effortlessly across the keys and her smile grew wider and the sound that filled our tiny music room was the sound of pure joy.

  Every time I hear this piece I think of my mother, and I think about what she taught me that day, and I silently thank her for that lesson. This piece of music is everywhere. You hear it in elevators and on commercials and in stores. A thousand kids’ toys have this melody programmed into them. Most versions you hear have all the heart taken out, but that doesn’t matter. Whenever I hear this piece, wherever I am, I’m transported back to that long-ago day, and all I can hear is the sound of my mother playing.