by M. Z. Kelly
“I can set you down in the school yard,” the pilot said, pointing up ahead. “After that you’re on your own.”
Dawson turned to us, handing me one of the flashlights. “Stay together when we’re on the ground.” Reed took that moment to use the bag that he’d been tossed. “Suck it up, twinkle toes.” He glanced at me, grinned. “That probably wasn’t the best choice of words.”
After landing we followed Dawson through a gate on the school yard and over to the highway. The rain was coming down hard, the wind blowing sheets of horizontal water across the field. In the distance I saw the funnel cloud looming closer as the minutes ticked down.
“Out of the car, now,” Dawson yelled, holding his badge up to a driver stopped at a crosswalk while some pedestrians scurried past. “This is a police emergency.”
The driver came out of the car under protest. Dawson pushed him aside and we all piled in. Seconds later we’d blown though a couple of intersections and were weaving in and out of traffic. Up ahead I saw that several cars had stopped, their drivers panicked at the sight of the tornado moving over the city.
“Hang on kids, this could get interesting,” Dawson yelled. He stomped on the gas and swerved into oncoming traffic before driving up onto the sidewalk. People scattered as Dawson hit the horn, explaining to anyone who cared to listen that the pedestrians were a portion of the human anatomy reserved for waste disposal.
My phone rang as the big FBI agent continued to play bowling for pedestrians. I heard Jack’s voice on the line. “Just wanted to let you know that Charlie and I will be headed home in a day or two.”
I checked my watch, realizing we had minutes left to save Darcy. “Not a good time for me, Jack. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay, but just FYI, Ryan Cooper murdered an actress he was involved with here in Seattle. Rumor has it that he’s headed back to Hollywood.”
I ended the call, feeling like I’d been punched in the gut. Even if by some miracle we did managed to stop The Artist in time, the thought of returning to Hollywood and facing Cooper again made me ill.
I pushed the thought away and saw that we had finally made it back onto the highway. After weaving in and out of traffic again we pulled up in front of the museum. We sprang out of the car as the tornado came within a couple hundred yards of us, scattering cars and everything else in its path.
“The museum is closed,” a security guard yelled over the howling wind when we got to the entrance. He had a ring of keys in his hand and had just finished locking the front doors.
Dawson pulled out his gun, blasted the lock open, and said, “I just reopened it, pal, and guess what? Admission is free.”
Once inside, we found a display announcing the art exhibit. As we ran down the corridor toward the display I realized we were out of time. I heard a strange sound somewhere overhead. The noise reminded me of when I’d been attacked by a large swarm of bees as a kid.
The sound intensified as Dawson said, “I got a feeling this isn’t going to end well.”
We came into the display area and stopped dead in our tracks. The area was lined with rare paintings, the placards next to them explaining about the background of each artist and the origin of the artwork. In the center of the display there was another work of art—the work of a monster.
Darcy Tate’s body was hanging from a rafter, the white gown that she wore billowing out around her. It gave the impression that she was floating above the display area. The red stream flowing down her painted face from that place where her eyes had once been made it looked like she was crying tears of blood.
I turned to Dawson at the same time the buzzing sound above us intensified. It sounded like a freight train bearing down on us. I felt like all the strength had been drained from my body, the sense of despair overwhelming me. “We’re too late.”
At that same moment, from the corner of my eye I saw something moving quickly away from the display area toward the exit. It stopped and turned toward us. I had trouble catching my breath as I looked at the insane figure in front of me. The creature was painted in bright colors and had some kind of horns affixed to its head.
“The Artist,” I said, at the same time realizing that Joe Dawson was pulling me by the arm.
“Into the basement now,” he yelled.
I was pushed toward the stairway leading into the lower part of the building as Dawson and the two Tulsa cops followed behind. I glanced up just before we descended into the darkness of the passageway. I locked eyes with the monster called The Artist for a final time.
Then the building disintegrated.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The day after the Oklahoma City Museum of Art was destroyed I awoke in a hospital bed. I laid there for a few moments, doing my best not to remember. I turned toward the window. A light rain was falling on the city as evening fell. Then, all at once the cascade of memories came rushing back to me.
Joe Dawson…the copycat…Susan Wellington sobbing in my arms…Ruth McCray telling us that her son was a good boy…Darcy Tate mutilated and hung from a wooden beam in the museum…and finally, the horrific face of the monster who called himself, The Artist.
A tear rolled down my cheek. I saw a big a hand coming over, brushing it away. I turned and saw that it belonged to Joe Dawson.
“Welcome back to the world of the living, Buttercup.”
I realized that his other arm was in a sling. “Are you okay?”
“Just a sprain. I came through better than some. Over a dozen people were killed. Haas is okay but Marcie suffered a concussion just like you.”
“Is he going to be alright?”
He nodded. “He’s probably sneaking downstairs as we speak, cleaning out the cafeteria.”
A breath slowly escaped from my lungs. I coughed, looked down and saw that I had all my arms and legs and nothing was bandaged. “I guess, all things considered, I survived everything okay.”
Dawson smiled. “You sure about that?”
I looked into his pale blue eyes but didn’t answer. I swallowed. “The Artist…did…”
He shook his head. “No sign. They’re still searching through the wreckage but since they haven’t found him by now it’s doubtful.”
My gaze drifted off, images of Darcy Tate and her distraught parents swimming in front of me. I pushed the thoughts away and found his pale eyes again. “We were so close.” I lost focus again but after a long moment looked back at him. “What happens now?”
He walked over to the window and looked at the darkening city for a minute then turned back to me. “We found Jason McCray’s body in the mine.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“We think maybe he was working with someone who turned against him. It’s just preliminary but the forensic guys think he’s only been dead for a few days.”
“Then…The Artist…who?”
He shrugged. “That’s the million dollar question. It looks like we start over.”
I hugged my sides, feeling a sudden chill. “Start over, but where?”
“The Artist always works on a schedule. He’s won’t kill again for a month. I’ll make use of that time to learn everything I can about him until…” I waited for him to continue, pushing down a wave of nausea. He finally went on, “I slay monsters, Kate. I won’t quit until The Artist is no longer on the planet.”
I studied him for a long moment. I was weak, exhausted, and full of despair. But I also heard the resolve in my voice, the voice of the woman who had dealt with evil before and had also brought down monsters.
“We have to stop him, Joe.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Since nothing was breaking on our case, and, based on his killing schedule, The Artist wouldn’t strike again for three weeks I was given a temporary release from my assignment and sent home. I picked up Bernie at Mom’s house and then stopped by Hollywood Station to fill Lieutenant Edna in on everything.
After Bernie settled into a corner of the lieutenant’s offic
e and I’d given Edna some background on the case, I said, “I spent the past week writing reports for the FBI and doing some follow-up work with their profilers and forensics people.”
My boss leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “The whole thing sounds like a major cluster fuck. How many girls did you say were in the cave?”
“Eleven, in total. The autopsies showed they were all killed by a fatal injection of etorphine. They were also embalmed to preserve their bodies, so the feds are looking at the possibility that The Artist worked in the funeral industry at one time. Their forensic people are still in the process of identifying the victims and informing the next of kin.”
“And the McCray kid. What was his role in everything?”
Bernie came over from the corner and nuzzled me. It made me realize how much we’d missed one other. “We think maybe Jason McCray was working with The Artist in the killing spree. Something went wrong in their relationship and The Artist turned on him.”
“What about the kid’s mother? Did she give anything up before she ate her gun?”
I shook my head. “It could be that his mother knew he was involved in the killings and had been protecting him. It might even be that she believed her son was still alive, and the thought of seeing him arrested or worse was too much for her to bear so she ended her life. My FBI partner, Joe Dawson, has another theory. He thinks that Hugh McCray was murdered after he found out about his son’s involvement in the killings, and that either Ruth or Jason committed the homicide and made it look like a suicide.”
“And the kid, Jason? How’d he die?”
“His body was found in a shallow grave inside the salt mine, not too far from where the dead girls were posed. The cause of death was the same fatal injection of etorphine as the other victims received. The M.E. estimated the TOD was only a few days before we found the cave.
“We did some checking and learned that Jason had a criminal record for possession of methamphetamine and studied pharmacology in college. He’d also worked in a vet’s office for a while. It’s possible that he’d used his knowledge and background to his killing partner’s advantage until he turned against him.”
I spent another half hour chatting with Edna. Despite all the FBI profilers and forensic experts that had been called into the case we still had far more questions than answers. As Joe Dawson put it before I left, “We might as well just put the professor back on the case for all the good the experts are doing us.”
I was exhausted by the time I finished the debriefing and told Edna that I’d see him in the morning. As I headed for home I called ahead, making sure my roommates deactivated any security devices. My hair had grown out a bit over the past several days but apparently not enough to impress Nana or the others after I got home.
“I heard you almost got killed in that tornado,” Nana said when I walked into the family room. “It looks like it killed your hair instead.”
“I kinda like it,” Natalie said, coming over to me. “Kate’s got that tussled, wind-blown look.”
Mo had come into the family room after saying goodbye to her boyfriend, Larry. She gave me the once over. “Yeah, I think Kate got herself a blow job.”
So much for my roommates missing me. Mo’s comment brought guffaws from Elvis and Tex who respectively said that my hair looked like a dead chia pet and I was a prime candidate for a new hair transplant technique under development.
I accepted a glass of wine from Prissy, as I took a seat on the sofa. Bernie found Bubba chewing on a bone and joined in. As I settled in I finally began to feel some of my stress loosening its grip. Jack was back in Seattle with Charlie where they were following up on the murder of the actress, Olivia Halstead. He’d told me they had no leads on Ryan Cooper’s current whereabouts, something that I mentioned to Natalie and Mo.
“Dudley Wainwright thinks Mr. Oyster’s back in the area, stalking his girlfriend,” Natalie said with a wink to show me they were still using code words and making up stories about him.
“I hope you haven’t mentioned anything about my father.”
“Course not,” Mo said. “Sometimes I wonder if you think Natalie and me suffer from cranial rectosis.”
“What?”
“You think we got our head up our ass.”
“No, it’s just that I’m concerned about keeping what happened out of the press.”
Natalie told me not to worry, then added, “Studly Dudley thinks the coppers are missing something ‘bout Mr. Oyster.”
“Like what?”
“He said it’s the simple things, basic clues that are overlooked by the cops that usually break a case.”
I thought about both The Artist and Ryan Cooper, wondering if what he’d said could be true. After a moment I said, “I don’t think there’s anything simple about finding my father’s killer. If we’ve overlooked something I can’t imagine what it would be.”
“Time will tell,” Mo said. “I know one thing for sure. If Cooper’s coming back to Hollywood no one’s safe ‘til he’s deader than road kill on Sunset.”
“That’s why I want you both to be careful. Let the police handle the case.”
“Not to worry,” Natalie said. “I’m busy with me wedding plans anyway. Got me that planner, Sasha Scrum, working on things. Thought we could toss some ideas around with her ‘bout the wedding and bachelorette party one of these nights.”
“You said I could choose the location,” Nana said, coming over from the kitchen. She was sipping Chica Loca, Tex’s energy drink, consisting of alcohol and green slime. Maybe it was the same concoction that had been dumped on my head.
“Nana’s like a member of the family, now,” Natalie explained to me. “I’m letting her choose where we have the party.”
“I think baby sis has lost her marbles,” Mo said to me. She cocked her head at Nana. “This one will probably wanna have the party at a titty bar.”
“Not a bad idea,” Nana said. “I could show off my rejuvenated assets, maybe even do a couple of lap dances.” She made a thrusting motion with her skinny hips.
Nana had recently had her breasts, who she’d named Laverne and Shirley, “perked up.” It was also obvious that her clinical trial for the sexual rejuvenation drug, something called Xandiva, was still working in her system.
“We also need to work on some games for the party,” Natalie said. “I want something that I’ll never forget.”
“I’ve got an idea for a game,” Nana said, her oversized dentures gleaming. “But it’s going to require that the groom and other guys in the wedding party show up.”
“We don’t need no guys there,” Mo said. “Unless it’s a couple of male strippers, maybe somebody who looks like Denzel Washington.”
“But guys have to be part of the game,” Nana continued. “The way it works is that the men stand behind cardboard cutouts of Hollywood stars, like George Clooney or Johnny Depp, and then they put their Willy part through a hole so that it looks like...”
“I think we got the picture,” Mo said. “And it ain’t pretty.”
Nana went on anyway, “Then the girls all try to guess which part belongs to who…” She beamed a smile. “…and that might require a little hands on detective work if you know what I mean.”
I was starting to get a visual of Elvis standing behind George Clooney with his…never mind.
“There’s no way we’re playing, Name that Pecker,” Mo said to Nana, “So don’t get your hopes up.”
Natalie was saying something about the game sounding like it would be a lot of fun when the exhaustion of the past week finally caught up with me. I excused myself and headed for bed with Bernie. I slipped into my PJ’s and read for a while. I started to doze off when my phone rang.
“No real leads here in Seattle,” I heard Jack say. “Charlie and I should be home soon.”
“And I suppose there’s nothing on Cooper either?” I asked, suppressing a yawn.
“Fraid not. Apparently he and Olivia Halstead had
a thing going for the past few weeks. When she tried calling things off, he became abusive and ended up pushing her in front of a car.”
I thought about my birthmother, how Cooper had struck her in the head and claimed that she’d fallen in the shower. “He seems to have a habit of killing women who cross him.”
“We’ll eventually find him, Kate. It’s just a matter of time.”
I wanted to believe him but had my doubts. He went on for a moment, talking about the case, but he then said something that I wasn’t expecting. “When I get home I thought we could have dinner. There’s something I want to ask you.”
I started to ask him what he meant but thought better of it. If he was going to talk about love and commitment I still didn’t know if I was ready for that. I finally just said, “Okay, Jack. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
After I turned off the light I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Thoughts about my relationship with Jack filled up much of the night, but I didn’t come to any conclusions regarding our future together.
I then remembered what Natalie had said about their instructor telling her that the police often missed something simple in their investigations. I turned both cases over in my mind, going over every detail again. The light of a new day was filtering through my bedroom window by the time I finally drifted off into a restless sleep where monsters hid in the shadows.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The next day I dragged myself out of bed, took a long shower, and slogged off to work. I was twenty minutes late so Bernie and I stopped by Lieutenant Edna’s office when we got to the station to apologize.
“Just so you know, you’re going to be riding the pine until further notice,” Edna said. “The Beast wants you out of harm’s way until Ryan Cooper is caught.”
I glanced down at Bernie, then back at Edna. “Neither of us is very good at sitting around doing paperwork.”
The lieutenant smiled, a rare event. “I guess I could team you up with Jessica, have you canvass the neighborhood on the case she’s working.”