by Eric Meyer
There was something else. If he did kill again, he’d have to close the malls, and that would bring him up against the Mayor. He’d lose his job, and the shooter would still be loose.
He edited the description of the killer and added some details, including the probability he was a pro. He was Mexican, with a probable link to Ciudad, and the chances were he would kill again. His last task before leaving the office was to remind Tolley about posting a deputy for each mall. He told him he had in hand, although he whined about the drain on their manpower.
“If something bad happens in the city, Sheriff, we won’t have a single deputy to deal with it. If it was something bad, it’d look like we’re not doing our jobs.”
“And if this guy strikes again, do you want to personally tell the grieving relatives we failed to take basic precautions because it would leave us short of officers?"
His eyes narrowed, and Kaz could see the point had gone home. If the shooter did strike again, they'd be looking for a scapegoat. When they found one that would be the end of his career.
"I’ll check it out, Sheriff.”
He got to the end of the day and felt relieved when he was able to leave the office and drive home in his cruiser. As usual when he opened his front door, the empty house felt cold, a silent reminder of his loss and the never-ending grief. He wanted to shout, ‘Honey I'm home,’ but he knew she wasn't there. He spoke to her on those occasions when he visited the graveside, and now he'd have something more to tell her.
Sheryl, honey, I may have a line on the shooter. It won't bring you back, but maybe after all this time it'll bring you some justice.
He felt lame, knowing it wasn't enough, not until he'd actually caught the killer. His mind buzzed with the seeming impossibility of the task, but he forced himself to stay calm. The only way to go after this guy with was with a clear mind. Inside the kitchen he took a TV dinner out of the freezer and put it into the microwave to heat up.
He pressed the buttons for the correct cooking time, and a sixth sense told him he wasn't alone. When he turned, the shooter was a few feet away. The Beretta .22 was in his hand, the muzzle pointed at his belly. When he looked at the eyes, they were soulless, like chips of cold granite. The pupils dilated, giving him a crazed look, a cokehead, and as dangerous as a wounded leopard.
The Mexican’s lips moved a fraction into what he would have assumed was a smile. "We have unfinished business, amigo. I missed you last time, and I never miss a target." A chuckle, “Especially a Norte Americano.”
He fought down the rising fear. "Why are you doing this?"
“The reasons are not your concern. They are my business, and yes, that's what this is, a business. A job, nothing personal, adios, amigo.”
He saw the finger take up the pressure on the trigger. He was ready to leap at him in the forlorn hope he might again avoid the bullet intended to kill him. The microwave oven beat him to it. His TV dinner was cooked, and the bell pinged. A tiny distraction, and the shooter took his eyes off him for a fraction of a second.
He moved like greased lightning, drawing and firing the Browning Hi-Power in a single movement. The shot went wide, and he scuttled through the door into the hallway, diving to the floor. He pointed his weapon at the door ready for when he came through. He’d seen the crazed look in his eyes, and any moment he'd appear to finish the job. He didn't appear, and after a few minutes, he cautiously got to his feet and peered into the kitchen. He'd gone, just like before. Yet the rear door was still closed.
Where is he?
At the last moment he heard movement behind him, and he spun around, in time to see the Mexican disappear out into the front yard. He went after him, gun raised and ready to put him down, but he wasn't there. He’d vanished, and Kaz was starting to wonder if he was seeing things, losing his sanity. Maybe he was still in the house. He raced around, throwing open doors, peering into closets, looking under beds, searching everywhere. He wasn't there.
He looked out of the bedroom window, and the yard was empty. No sign of him, no sign of a vehicle, nothing. He went outside, circled the block, and found nothing. He should have called it in, and yet somehow something stopped him. He still wasn't sure if he was imagining things.
He went back into the house. After checking and locking all the doors and windows, he made a final search and then poured himself a tumbler of whiskey.
Fuck the TV dinner in the microwave, I need something stronger, a lot stronger.
He sat at the kitchen table, a glass in one hand, and his gun in the other. Eventually, the alcohol calmed him. He found the bullet he’d fired embedded in the wall, so he hadn’t imagined it. He called the office and Rick answered.
"He was here."
"Is that you, Sheriff?"
"The shooter, he was here, in my house. He hasn't left town."
“Is he still there?”
“Negative, he’s gone. But he’s still in the town, which means he’ll strike again.”
Tolley took a long breath, sucking in air through his teeth. "Jesus, it's just as well I called everyone in. There’ll be a man posted inside every mall from tomorrow morning. Sheriff, do you want me to send some men to your house?"
"No point, he’s long gone."
"What about roadblocks? He can't have got far."
"Forget the roadblocks. He hasn’t left town.”
He ended the call and took another swig of the whiskey. The glass was empty again, and he refilled it, although with a crazed hitman on the loose, he knew he should go easy on the sauce. He also knew he was lucky to be alive, yet he’d swap his life in return for the capture of Sheryl’s killer. The more he thought about him, that harsh, Mexican face, with the cold, hard eyes, the more his anger grew until he was incandescent with fury.
The bastard killed Sheryl and almost killed me. No matter what it takes, I’ll put him down. But first, I have to find him.
He walked around the house, making another check, trying, and failing to think straight. He made himself a vow.
I’ll devote every spare moment from here on in to finding the shooter. I’ve seen his face, I have a description, and that should be enough to find him. Not to bring him to justice, to kill him. I’m a peace officer, sure. But I’m also the widower of a woman brutally murdered by the man who recently stood inside my house.
* * *
He hadn't managed to steal another vehicle, which forced him to walk. He could call a cab, but that cop would be hunting him, and they’d check with the local companies. He’d seek out the seedier kind of area where he could find the seedier kind of accommodation. Cash on the nail, no questions asked.
Several times he ducked into narrow alleyways and stayed out of sight when he saw a cop cruiser come past, hard eyes looking everywhere, looking for him.
He found what he needed. Women standing on a street corner, all short skirts, high heels and boob jobs. They were close to a bar with a garishly lit sign outside. ‘Sex show, all-night, live girls, first drink free.’
He approached a girl, but before he could speak, she assembled her lips in a professional smile. Her eyes were cold enough to chill a glass of tequila. "You looking for a good time, Mister?"
He looked her up and down. She was thin, almost emaciated, and although she looked thirty, he doubted she’d yet reached her twentieth year. The reason was obvious; she was a user, selling herself to support her habit. Probably she bought drugs supplied by Paco. He smiled to himself, if she helped him stay out of sight, maybe he could offer her a discount on her next purchase. Buy one get one free. The frequent doses of cocaine had left him so hyped up he couldn't stop himself giggling.
"Are you okay, Mister?”
“I’m fine. How much for the whole night? Before you give me a price, I have plenty of product I can share with you. Mexican Coke, it’s the best."
"I thought that was Colombian."
"All Colombians lie. What’s it going to be?"
He could see it in her anxious eyes, her desperate ne
ed, the withdrawal symptoms that possessed her entire being.
"All-night, five hundred dollars, and you share everything you have."
"Two hundred dollars, and as soon as we get inside your room you can help yourself to as much as you want."
He put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a baggie. It was probably ten times the size of what she was used to. "One hundred percent pure, guaranteed, and there's plenty more where that came from."
He watched her eyes shine with longing, with her compelling need for the drug. "Let's go, Mister."
She led him past the bar and into an anonymous street entrance. Her room was a walk up on the fourth floor, little bigger than a broom closet. Space for a bed, a rail to hang her clothes, a cracked washbasin in a corner, and he'd smelled the toilet down the hallway on the way in. But it was as good a place as any, anonymous and out of sight.
She started to strip but he shook his head. "Not yet, I'm tired."
She shrugged, but it was more of a nervous twitch. "What about that coke?"
He handed over the baggie. She spread a line onto a hand mirror and snorted it up her nostril. She repeated it with the other nostril, and she looked at him with grateful eyes.
"What now, Mister? You wanna fuck?”
He took the baggie from her and replaced it in his pocket. "I need to sleep. Stay with me, and don't leave this room, not for anything."
"You in trouble?"
He patted the pocket. "With what I have in here, do you care?"
A shrug. “Why should I care? What about the rest of it, the money you promised?"
"In the morning you can blow me. I’ll pay you when you’re done.”
He lay down on the bed, and she lay next to him. A second later she recoiled.
“Hey, Mister, you're bleeding from your head. What happened?"
"An auto accident, don't worry about it."
"You're messing up my sheets."
He turned his savage eyes on her. “I'll mess up your fucking head if you don't stop whining. I've given you the coke, and now I need to rest. You’ll get your money in the morning."
"I want it now," she whined.
He was tired, desperately tired, and yet the coke had screwed with his brain, which made him angry. When he got angry, he got violent, but he forced himself to refrain from hitting her. He didn’t need any more trouble. “I said in the morning. Shut up, I need some sleep."
But he didn't sleep for a long time. His brain was filled with jagged flashes, vague memories. He was at school with Paco, and then he was killing a woman, putting a bullet into her and each of her two children.
Or is that what I’m supposed to do? Yes, that must be it. In the morning, I’ll get it done.
He tried to sleep, but all he managed was to doze, and he kept waking. The last time he awoke it was still night, and he knew something was wrong. The girl had the door open, and she was leaving the room despite what he’d told her. He snatched out his gun, knowing she’d have stolen his coke, and probably his money, too.
The reaction was automatic, and he fired a single shot that took her in the throat. She fell outside onto the landing, choking and drowning in her own blood. He dragged her back inside, slammed the door shut, and waited for her to die. When she gasped out her last breath, he used her body to prop the door closed. Satisfied there’d be no more interruptions, he lay back down on the bed and tried again to sleep. In the morning, he'd finish the job and go home. Wherever that was.
Chapter Four
He slept badly, and the impossible dream crowded his mind, turning into a jumble of jagged thoughts. Finding his wife's killer and bringing him to justice was nearer than ever. Yet further away. The guy was like a ghost, popping up to murder his victims and then disappearing again. Before breakfast he called the office, and as expected there was no news. He'd dropped out of sight.
“Maybe he’s gone for good,” Tolley said, “I was talking to Mayor Bridges, and that’s what he thinks.”
“When he can provide evidence, he’s gone. Listen, until then, we stay alert.”
As he showered and shaved for the new day, he was thoughtful. He needed a plan, and so far, he didn't have a single clue of how to capture the bastard. On the drive back to the office he watched the sidewalks, scanning from side to side. As if he’d see him strolling along like any law-abiding citizen. Except this man was no law-abiding citizen. He was looking for a Mexican with eye like chips of ice and a bloody dressing covering a head wound.
He didn't get lucky, and when he reached the office, things got worse. The killings had stoked up a media frenzy, and TV and print journalists had camped outside in force, like a pack of hungry wolves with the scent of blood in their nostrils. As he walked toward the door, they stuffed cameras and microphones in his face, and he had to push his way through. As if he was walking through thick jungle, and he opined a machete may have been useful to hack his way past the pack.
He reached the door, pushed inside, and slammed it shut. The deputies stared at him like he was the genie appearing out of the bottle, the man who carried answers to the city’s problems. Tolley nodded a greeting.
“Sheriff, there’s no news yet.”
“We need to get those people cleared from out front. This is a Sheriff’s office, not an amusement park."
If he expected a reply, he was disappointed. Tolley was looking at a man who’d just stepped out of his office.
"I want to see results, Sheriff."
Walker wanted to tell William Bridges he'd no business going back there, but the last thing he needed was a stand-up row. He had enough problems without making the Mayor even more hostile.
"We're doing our best, Mr. Mayor, but this guy is difficult to track down. Finding him is damn hard."
"That's what we pay you for, Kaz, the hard ones. If it was easy, we could run him to ground ourselves. You're supposed to be the professional, trained for this kind of thing."
The ring of the telephone forestalled a reply, and Deputy Gerard Wilkes answered. He listened intently, murmured a few questions, and told them they’d get someone out there right away.
Kaz had a bad feeling. That call wouldn’t be anything good.
“What is it, Gerry?”
"Another murder, Sheriff."
"Not another shopping mall, for Christ’s sake!" Bridges almost shouted, "Tell me it's not another one."
"No, Sir, it’s not a mall. They found a body in an upstairs room of a brothel."
"Thank God it was only a whore."
Kaz couldn't take that one lying down. "Mayor Bridges, whatever she did for a living, she was a human being. There's nothing to thank God for."
His eyes raked the Sheriff’s. "It does mean we don't have to close down the malls, which makes me thankful. They can stay open.”
“Only for now." Bridges gave him a sharp look, which Walker ignored. He gave his attention to Deputy Wilkes. "How was she killed?"
He paused, not wanting to give the answer they dreaded. "It looks the same as the victims in the mall, small caliber bullets. Probably .22. It’s the Mexican, has to be.”
"Fuck it!" Mayor Bridges snarled, "The way this is going, anyone who crosses a red light will blame it on this Mexican shithead. Is he the only man in the city with a .22 pistol?"
Kaz gave him a flat stare. "No, Sir, he isn't. But right now, he’s the only one who's going around killing people."
“Fuck it,” he snarled again, “You close the malls over my dead body.” Bridges stormed out of the office and slammed the door so hard the windows rattled.
Kaz realized they were all looking at him, waiting. He wished he had something to offer.
“I’ll go and inspect this brothel.” Tolley sniggered, but no one else laughed, “Someone call the crime scene people. Give them the address and tell them to get there as soon as possible."
"They're still busy with the last one," Tolley said, “They can’t work miracles.”
He sighed. “Just tell them to get over there.
I'm leaving now, and I’ll meet them there."
He left the office and drove to the address they'd given him. Before he went in, he saw a woman leaning against a shuttered storefront, and he went over to her.
"You know about the murder?"
He was a cop, and she was wary. "I heard."
"Did you see who went inside with the victim?"
She looked him up and down, and her gaze was hostile. He spread his hands palm upward, a calming gesture. "Look, Ma’am, what I'm trying to do is find the guy who did it. I’d like to keep you ladies safe."
"A bit late for that," she snapped.
"I'm sorry. Did you see the guy?"
"I saw him. Mexican, odd looking, he looked at me, and it was like twin lasers burning into my skull.”
“Did he have a wound dressing on his head?”
“Yeah, he did.”
She told him as much as she could recall, and it was enough to confirm it was the same guy who'd shot the people in the mall. He went inside the building and climbed the rickety staircase, ignoring the stench of sewage, mixed with the aroma of stale scent and something undefinable. Probably semen. Whatever else they did in this place; hygiene wasn’t their priority.
She was lying on the floor. She'd once been a nice-looking girl, someone’s precious daughter, although the tracks on her arms told an all-too-familiar story; a drug addict selling her body to finance her habit. He finished searching the tiny, squalid, and depressing room and left the building. There was nothing else he could do, and he was beginning to feel overwhelmed. The crime scene techs still hadn’t arrived, and maybe Tolley was right. Like him, they were overwhelmed.
Since the shooter had arrived in the city it was like an elemental force had hit them. One man, a mass murderer who’d left a trail of bodies and then disappeared. He thought back to that blurry image Eva had given him. It was the only picture they had. When he got back to the office, he’d get the technical guys to prepare a composite image of the shooter and hand it out to the news outlets. He’d also get flyers distributed to the local malls, maybe the local brothels, too, and anyplace else that may be at risk. It wasn’t enough, he knew that, and he needed to do more, but what?