by Chris Carter
‘And Tanya’s?’
Garcia laughed. ‘The complete opposite. Open to absolutely everyone.’
The fact that in this day and age people would so freely splash all sorts of information about their lives and their day-to-day activities over the Internet in the way they did had always amazed Hunter. Images, names, locations, dates, likes, dislikes . . . it was all out there, and it didn’t take a genius to grab hold of it all.
‘Are we absolutely certain that this Pete Harris character has really been in Europe for the past month?’ he asked.
Garcia’s head jerked slightly to the right. ‘We haven’t officially checked, but he has been posting entries from Berlin for over three weeks now. Most of them are like the one I just showed you, with him in the forefront of the picture and some very famous Berlin sites on the background, so unless this guy has been Photoshopping his life for the past month, he’s in Germany, Robert.’
Hunter accepted it, but didn’t give up. ‘Let’s get it checked anyway. For someone who has gone through the sort of preparation that this killer has gone through, Photoshopping photographs for an alibi would’ve been the easiest of all his tasks.’
‘I’ll get someone on it,’ Garcia said, reaching for the phone on his desk. The call lasted less than two minutes.
Twenty-Nine
Mr. J stepped out of the elevator on the fifth floor of the hotel he was staying in and calmly walked down the brightly lit corridor in the direction of his room – 515. As he stepped through the door, he placed the ‘do not disturb’ sign outside it and locked it behind him. A subtle and very pleasant scent of jasmine and vanilla hung in the air, courtesy of the aromatherapy treatment the hotel provided.
Mr. J dropped his briefcase and his jacket on to the sumptuous queen-sized bed, kicked off his shoes, and made his way into the white-tiled bathroom. In there, he turned on the washbasin faucet, bent forward over it, and began splashing his face and the back of his neck with ice-cold water. Some of it splattered on to his shirt collar and trickled down on to his chest and back, but Mr. J didn’t mind it. In fact, he welcomed the cooling sensation. A whole minute went by before he looked up again and faced his reflection in the mirror.
He looked so different.
Staring into his own eyes, Mr. J inhaled an overly deep breath and held it in his lungs. A few seconds later, with his lips pursed, he let go of it slowly.
‘Just breathe,’ he silently told himself. ‘Just breathe.’
He repeated the process five more times before he finally turned off the water faucet.
Time to go back to normal.
Mr. J brought his left hand to his face and, with the tips of his fingers, pulled down on his right-eye bottom lid. Then, using his right thumb and index finger, he carefully pinched and collected the baby-blue contact lens he’d been wearing for the past twelve hours. After collecting the one from his left eye, he dumped them both into the toilet and flushed them away. Eyes back to their original color, Mr. J proceeded to rid his face of the fake moustache, the goatee, and the false teeth, securely placing them to one side. He spent the next sixty seconds opening and closing his mouth in a stretching exercise and rubbing his chin and upper lip to do away with the awkward sensation.
Mr. J was starting to look like Mr. J again.
The last step was to carefully detach the blond wig from his head. That done, he took another minute and massaged his scalp with his fingertips.
Boy, did that feel good?
At that particular moment, Mr. J could think of only one thing he needed more than a shower. He returned to the bedroom and from the small fridge he grabbed a couple of mini-bottles of whisky and emptied them into a tumbler – no ice, no water. As he sipped his drink, he closed his eyes and allowed the golden liquid to envelop his palate. It wasn’t good-quality whisky, but the alcohol was strong enough. He had one more sip and placed the glass on the bedside table. As he reached for his briefcase, Mr. J heard his cellphone ring inside his jacket pocket. He identified the ring as coming from his personal phone, not his work one. He reached for it, checked the display screen and frowned. The call was coming from Cassandra, but it wasn’t a regular call, it was a request for a video-call.
Mr. J had only video-called with his wife once before, eleven months ago, to test the feature in Cassandra’s new phone. Neither of them liked it very much.
She’s probably calling to find out when I’m coming home, he thought. But why a video-call? The next thought that came into Mr. J’s head filled him with relief: Good job I’ve got all that crap off my face.
He held the phone in front of him and accepted the call, but as the image materialized on the small screen, Mr. J looked even more puzzled. All he could see was one of the walls in his living room. He knew it was his living room because he recognized the wall clock and framed Gauguin print his wife had bought a few years back.
‘Hello? Cass?’ he called in an unsure voice. ‘Where are you? Everything OK?’
No reply.
‘Cass?’
Silence.
‘Honey, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m not sure if this thing is working OK. I can’t see or hear you.’
Still no reply, but the camera slowly panned right and Cassandra’s face finally came into focus.
Mr. J felt an awkward chill grab hold of the back of his neck. Something was off. Something was really off.
Cassandra was sitting down on one of their dinner chairs, with her hair tied back into a ponytail. Her head was low, obscuring part of her face, but Mr. J could still see enough of it, and what he saw shook him. His wife had been crying, and judging by the redness of her nose and blotted eye makeup, which had run all the way down to her chin, she’d been doing so for a while.
Emotionally, Cassandra was the strongest woman he had ever met. It took a lot to make her cry. Mr. J had only seen it happen once, when her mother passed away eight years ago.
‘Cassandra, honey, what’s going on? Are you all right? Why are you crying?’ There was real concern in his voice.
She sucked in a deep breath through a blocked nose, but said nothing in return.
‘Cass, talk to me for Christ’s sake. You’re starting to scare me now.’ Mr. J twisted his phone left then right as if checking on something. ‘What the fuck? Is the sound on this thing on? I don’t know if I’m doing this video-call-thing right, honey.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with the sound, John.’
The voice that came through Mr. J’s tiny cellphone speakers made his entire body tense. It had been digitally altered to sound deep and full of gravel, way too deep to sound human.
‘What? Who the fuck is this? And what’s with the demon-like voice? What the hell is going on?’
‘What’s going on,’ the voice replied, ‘is that I have placed a little wager with your wife.’
Mr. J’s confusion intensified. ‘What? Is this a joke?’
‘Oh! Definitely not. I can guarantee you that this is as real as it gets, John.’
‘Who is this?’
‘Who I am doesn’t matter. But this does. Look up.’
The instruction was meant for Mr. J’s wife. Shivering, she obeyed.
Cassandra lifted her chin, and as her gaze met her husband’s in the small screen, a new onslaught of tears began pouring down her cheeks. Mr. J’s heart sank. He focused his attention on her eyes and in them he saw something he had never seen before, hopelessness together with tremendous fear. He knew then that whatever it was that was happening, it was no joke.
‘Cassandra, what’s going on? Who’s in the house with you?’
Her lips quivered again, and all she could do was gently shake her head.
‘She’s not allowed to speak, John,’ the voice announced. ‘I have to give her permission to first.’
Despite what the voice said, through drowning tears, Cassandra called out, but all she could manage was a poor whisper.
‘John, please.’
SLAP.
&n
bsp; Cassandra was hit across her face so fast, Mr. J missed the movement completely. The strength of the slap made her whole head twist left awkwardly. The skin on her right cheek immediately reddened, and an agonizing pain-filled scream exploded out of her, followed by desperate sobbing.
For a second, and out of pure surprise, Mr. J’s heart lost its rhythm. His eyes widened in total disbelief.
‘What the fuck? You sonofabitch.’
‘I told you not to speak until I give you permission, didn’t I?’ the voice said calmly. ‘Don’t do it again.’
Slowly Cassandra turned her head and once again looked at her cellphone screen. The powerful slap had also split the right corner of her bottom lip, causing a small blob of blood to trickle down her chin. In her eyes, fear had suddenly become terror.
Anger traveled through Mr. J’s veins like a dark avalanche, spilling off in all directions until his entire body was shaking with it.
‘Cassandra, honey,’ he said. ‘Please listen to me. Everything will be fine, OK. I promise you. For now, just do what he says. I’ll get this figured out. I promise you, my love. I will die before I let anything happen to you.’
Cassandra swallowed dry, as more tears made their way down her cheeks. She blinked once and her head bobbed down a tiny fraction to signal not only that she had understood, but that she was also putting all of her trust in him.
Mr. J closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he finally reopened them just a second later, it was like he had mutated into a complete different person. One Cassandra had never seen before.
Thirty
Mr. J’s face was expressionless, his eyes stone cold but full of focus, and despite all that was happening, his next words came out chillingly calm, steady, and overflowing with determination.
‘Now you listen to me, whoever you are. I know why you’re doing what you’re doing. I know you’re angry. I know you’re hurt, but your problem is with me and no one else. My wife isn’t part of this. So deal with me.’ Mr. J brought his face a fraction closer to his phone. ‘You and I. No one else. All you have to do is name a time and a place and I’ll be there to face you. You have my word on that. Then we can go about this in any way you like. Your terms. No questions asked. But right now you’re going to leave my wife alone, and you’re going to leave my house.’
‘You know why I’m doing what I’m doing?’ the demonic-sounding voice asked. Even through all its distortion, the sarcasm in its tone was unmistakable.
‘Don’t play dumb,’ Mr. J replied, his tone still arctic. ‘We both know why you want revenge on me. How you managed to find me is a different question altogether, but I have obviously been careless in one of my jobs and left some sort of trail behind, which has led you to me. Congratulations. Hell knows how long it must’ve taken you to track me down, but that’s not important anymore. You’ve got me. Here I am. That was what you wanted, wasn’t it? So have me. Let my wife go.’
On his screen, Mr. J saw Cassandra’s eyes narrow slightly. Confusion, brought on by his words, was starting to collide with her fear.
‘This has just become very interesting,’ the voice said with amusement. ‘And judging by the look on your wife’s face, she’s as intrigued as I am. So why don’t you tell us, John? Why exactly do you think that I’m seeking revenge on you?’
‘If you are after me, you know exactly what I’m capable of. Are you sure you want to play dumb?’
Mr. J’s face remained completely void of expression, but somehow his eyes looked a lot more menacing than just a moment ago.
‘So let me tell you again. Leave my wife alone. Get out of my house, and you and I can sort this out in whichever way you like.’
‘I’m very sorry to disappoint you, John,’ the demonic voice came back, ‘but despite what you may think, which, I must admit, has now made me very curious, there’s nothing for you and I to sort out. But whatever it is that you’ve done, it must’ve been something very bad if you think someone would come after your wife for revenge. But whatever that is, frankly, it’s none of my concern. Anyway, this charade game is getting old . . . and time is ticking away, especially for your wife. So, let me tell you how this is going to work, John. As I’ve said, I have placed a bet with your wife. Two questions. I’m going to ask you two questions. All you have to do to win this game is correctly answer both of them. If you do, she will be set free and neither of you will ever see or hear from me again. But if you don’t . . .’ The unfinished sentence hung in the air menacingly for a couple of seconds. ‘Now listen carefully, John, because I’m only going to go over the rules once . . .’
‘You’re not listening to me.’ Mr. J cut the demonic voice short. His tone remained steady but powerful and demanding. ‘We’re not playing a game. Not with my wife’s life. You and I meet face to face, and we can play whatever psycho crazy game you li—’
‘Shut the fuck up, John,’ the voice slashed back. ‘You are the one who’s refusing to listen. I’m giving you a chance to save your wife’s life, and the only way you’ll be able to do that is if you give me two correct answers. If you choose not to, you forfeit and she’ll die right here, right now, right in front of your eyes.’
On the screen, Cassandra burst into a new fit of tears. Her head dropped down once again and she began shaking hysterically.
Could this really have been just a coincidence? Mr. J thought. Could this idiot really have no idea of who he was dealing with? Possibly. Mr. J knew that he was the best at what he did. He didn’t make mistakes. He was extremely careful. So how did this guy find him?
‘Cassandra, honey, listen to me.’ Mr. J tried to calm her down. ‘He will not touch you. He will not harm you. I promise you that, my love.’ He paused for a second; when he spoke again, he was addressing the voice. ‘If it’s true that you have no idea of what I do or who I am, let me give you a chance to rethink your actions. I work for the most powerful syndicate in Los Angeles. The most powerful syndicate in the whole of California. A syndicate that doesn’t abide by any laws. It makes its own. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’ Mr. J didn’t care for a reply. ‘My role within this syndicate is very specific. I am what you might call “the last enforcer” of their rules – the last instance in their problem-solving chain. In fact, I’m “the end of the chain”. If I come to see you, I will be the last person you will ever see. Are you getting the picture?’
Another deliberate pause.
‘So what you’re telling me, John,’ the demon replied with an odd quirk to its distorted voice, as if struggling to hold in a laugh. ‘Is that you’re a . . . gun for hire. A killer. An assassin. And you work for some sort of . . . crime syndicate. And I am now supposed to be very scared of you.’
‘What I’m telling you,’ Mr. J came back, his voice unaltered. ‘Is that if you harm one hair on my wife’s head, there won’t be a rock on this earth under which you can hide that I won’t find you, and I will skin you alive. This is not a threat. It’s a promise. I will rip your heart from your chest and feed it to rats. I’ll make you suffer in a way you’re not even able to imagine. Is this getting through to you?’
No reply.
‘So now I’m the one giving you a chance to save your life. If you set my wife free now and walk away, I will not look for you. I will not hunt you down. I will leave you be. You have my word. Just walk away and I promise that I will forget all of this. Are you listening to me?’
A few silent seconds went by.
‘Yes,’ the voice finally replied. ‘Are you listening to me, John? Because if you are, keep your eyes on the screen.’
Thirty-One
Psychotherapist, Dr. Gwen Barnes, had stayed behind in her practice after her last evening patient had left. She preferred to go over her notes while the day’s sessions were still fresh in her mind. If at all possible, she’d also rather not take any work home, especially on a Saturday night.
Dr. Barnes’ first patient of the day had been a middle-aged woman, who she’d seen a handful of tim
es before, and who, so it appeared, had problems for the sake of having problems. Their sessions revolved around discussing and trying to understand a problem that was never a problem to begin with, but became a problem because it had been forged into one.
‘Not that much to revise here,’ Dr. Barnes said to herself.
Her next four patients had all been people with complicated marital problems, who she did her best to try to help, but she knew that, in the long run, their relationships were, for the lack of a better word, doomed. All four of them could barely stand the sight of their partners and Dr. Barnes got the impression that the main reason why they came to her practice wasn’t really to seek any sort of help, but just so they could spend another ninety minutes away from the person who they hated with a feral intensity.
Her last patient of the day, a seventeen-year-old girl named Beverly Dawson, was indeed a human conundrum. Beverly suffered from multiple personality disorder and her case was as intriguing as it was sometimes terrifying. After eight sessions, Dr. Barnes had already encountered five different personalities, each bringing with it a whole new dimension of complexity. The most frightening of them all was the one Dr. Barnes secretly referred to as ‘Severely Aggressive Beverly’, or SAB.
As Dr. Barnes finished revising her notes, she reflexively placed her right hand over to her left wrist, something she did unconsciously every time she was either nervous or thinking, but as her fingers touched her bare skin, she looked down at her hands and a sad, almost painful, feeling came over her. She closed her eyes and pushed the feeling away. Seconds later she pulled her chair closer to her desk once again and powered down her computer.
After finally locking her office for the rest of the weekend, Dr. Barnes took the elevator down to the building’s underground parking lot. It’d been a long day. A long week, in fact, and she couldn’t wait to get home, have a hot shower and indulge herself with a nice bottle of red wine. Hell, maybe she would have a spliff too.