The Killing Season

by Mason Cross

  He’d been listening all the way down, flitting from ­station to station, looking for news. The death of the fat man hadn’t made any of the bulletins yet, not even the local ones. That was no surprise. In Wardell’s experience—and he had a lot—it generally took two, three hours minimum for a one-off murder to make the news. Less for the latest in an established series of killings, of course.

  But there was no mention either of his escape, and given that more than seven hours had elapsed, that was a surprise. He should have been the lead story on every channel by now. His prison mug shot should have been flashed across the morning papers and on the news channels and the Web since the early hours. The fact that it hadn’t been indicated that the cops or the feds or whoever were sitting on the information. They probably thought they could run him down before anybody noticed.

  Wardell smiled, musing that his freshest kill would most likely cost some middle-echelon public servant his job. Not the guy who’d actually decided to cover up the escape, of course, but probably the next link down the chain of command.

  “Hoping I’d keep out of trouble for a day or two?” he said aloud, adjusting the rearview mirror to examine his reflection. He shook his head slowly. “Sorry, boys.”

  Looking into his own cold blue eyes, it occurred to Wardell that this was the first real mirror he’d seen in half a decade. It was less forgiving than the shiny plastic in the prison. It showed the new wrinkles, the occasional lines of gray in his straggly beard. The eyes had stayed the same, though. He’d never picked up the glaze of defeat and regret that he’d seen in the other long-term inmates.

  The media blackout wouldn’t last much longer; he was certain of that. And so a change in appearance was necessary. He fumbled in the glove box and came out with a pair of sunglasses. They were feminine in style, but not overtly so. The frames were dark brown and conservative. They would pass. He’d have liked there to have been some kind of hat, too, but he was out of luck on that score.

  Not that it particularly mattered, of course. Covering his tracks had once been a necessity. Now it was more like good practice, something that would allow him to operate more freely. He’d be traced to this place—Lord knew his current appearance was memorable enough—but he knew how to make the trail go cold from this point. Until the next kill, of course.

  He got out of the car, locking it using the key remote, and walked toward the gnarled knot of buildings. It was cold, and there was a light but nagging breeze. He felt the oversized clothes flap around his body like some kind of gown.

  He passed the diner and stopped at the convenience store, pushing the glass door inward and hearing a little bell toll at his entrance. At the far end of the store was a female clerk behind a counter. She was small and doughy and frumpish—could have been anywhere between twenty-two and fifty. Her gaze lingered on Wardell for a second longer than average. Which was about right for somebody looking at a man with clothes three sizes too big, a bum’s beard, and DIY bandages made from clothing strips on his wrists and forearms.

  Wardell watched her for signs. She didn’t gasp. She didn’t look down to compare his face with a recently received police wanted sheet.

  He nodded to her and moved into the store. He made his way from section to section, efficient but not hurrying. He selected a first aid box and a men’s grooming kit, which included a pair of nail scissors, and also a razor and a can of shave gel for sensitive skin. He found the section that sold souvenir clothing to tourists and selected a pair of jeans in his size, together with a lime-green T-shirt with a hot-pink motif. Lastly, he stopped by the chilled section and chose a sandwich—tuna on rye—and a caffeine-free Diet Coke. He didn’t like any substance that affected his moods, coordination, or reaction time.

  He was turning toward the counter when a red and black jacketed book, one of many similar paperbacks on a swivel stand, caught his eye. He grinned and plucked it from its slot. It was called Summer of Terror: On the Trail of the Chicago Sniper, by Sheriff John Hatcher. He thumbed through it, smiling at the memories evoked by the glossy pictures in the middle. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the picture of the house Hatcher had bought with the proceeds of his celebrity. He wondered how much Hatcher would relish a rematch, given that he appeared to be taking all the credit for stopping him the first time.

  Wardell shelved the idea for later and put the book back. His ultimate goal was still the same, but it wouldn’t do him any harm to line up some warm-up targets, aside from the one he already had in mind.

  He approached the counter, letting the clerk see him up close now. She was trying not to stare, but was plainly curious. No doubt about it: He’d be identified later. If he hadn’t been already, that was. If he had been, there was a cheap ballpoint pen tied to the counter with a length of string, and that would be all he’d need to resolve the immediate problem. Wardell studied the clerk’s face until she looked away. He was reasonably convinced he hadn’t been recognized. That was good. Wardell hated a mess.

  She scanned the items he placed on the counter, raising an eyebrow at the green shirt, and told him how much it came to. He took four tens from a brown leather ladies’ wallet and paid, giving her a knowing smile. That puzzled her.

  You’ll be telling the grandkids about this moment, girlie, Wardell thought as the woman returned his smile with visible unease.

  7

  10:13 a.m.

  The truck stop’s public bathrooms were cold and filthy and they stank. But they were also deserted, and they had sinks and running water. Real mirrors again, too.

  Wardell stripped to the waist and washed up in one of the sinks. It was porcelain, not stainless steel like the one in his cell. There was a choice of chilled or scalding water, but he managed to achieve a balance by blocking the drain with paper towels and filling the sink. He ducked his head in, soaking his face and beard and holding his breath. He held it for two minutes, enjoying the sensory deprivation.

  After years of holding his memories in check, he let them flood back in. Toward the end of his submersion, as the pounding in his temples rose to a crescendo, he could almost hear the gunshots echoing across the years. He remembered blood and heat and dirt. He remembered pulling the trigger again and again, seeing the blood spray up close, hearing the cries of pain and fear. And he remembered being interrupted.

  Slowly, he raised his head out before expelling a long, slow breath. He’d been thwarted twice now. Once over there and once in Chicago. He felt like a bowstring, pulled taut and then held interminably. This time, no one would stop him.

  Some target practice first—and target practice was an end in itself, as far as pleasure went. And then some scores settled, to send a message as much as anything else. And then the finale. Before they’d caught him, he’d planned on hitting a mall or a movie theater or a subway station—the venue didn’t really matter, as long as there were lots of people in a confined space. And then? Then he’d keep shooting until he ran out of ammunition or was cut down himself.

  He looked into his own eyes again, fascinated with the reflection. Had incarceration made him vain, or would the novelty wear off soon?

  The face had to change, along with the clothes. That death row mug shot would be everywhere once the story broke—and it would, sooner rather than later. But equally, he couldn’t simply trim his hair and go clean-shaven either, because they’d also run his service photo—twenty-two-year-old Caleb Wardell in his BDUs, seated demurely in front of the Stars and Stripes. They’d be looking for him both ways: bearded serial killer, or clean-shaven, buzz-cut Captain America. A happy medium was required. He lifted the nail scissors he’d bought in the store and began hacking away at the beard, laying the groundwork for the shave.

  Ten minutes later, he’d been transformed. He hadn’t cut the hair, but had instead pulled it back tightly from his forehead, tying it in a short ponytail using an elastic band he’d found in the Ford’s glove box. The stragg
ly beard had vanished, trimmed down to a neat goatee with razor edges. He looked a little pale, a little gaunt, a little older than he remembered, but otherwise pretty good. The hair and the goatee was an entirely new look for him, and he thought it made him look a little like an indie movie actor, or perhaps a beat poet. The important thing was that he looked nothing like a convict or a soldier.

  So what’s the next step, soldier?

  He knew what the next steps were: target practice and scores settled. He had a list now, having had time to think about it. It was a list he could keep in his head—there were only four names on it so far. But that was okay; there was plenty of room for more.

  He put the sunglasses back on and went back outside. There was a pay phone on the wall. It was the kind with rudimentary Internet access, which gave him an idea. He inserted some quarters and set up a basic webmail account with an anonymous name. Then he put in some more change and made a five-minute call to a number he’d memorized.

  When he was done, he looked around, surveying his pos­ition. The restrooms were out of the line of sight from the gas station, so the clerk wouldn’t be able to see his new look, but he kept his head down and walked away quickly anyway. He crossed the parking lot in the direction of the blue Ford. He opened the rear door and reached inside to grip the handles of the black duffel. He’d found it in the trunk earlier, and it was surprisingly roomy. After some thought, he’d left the original contents—a towel and athletic clothes—inside, to add bulk and to prevent the bag settling around the rifle. He hauled the bag out and closed the door. There was no need to lock it this time. He walked away from the Ford and climbed the steep grassy slope to the tree line, emerging on the side of the highway. He squinted east into the sun and saw the glass and aluminum of the small provincial bus station glint in the light two miles distant.

  Time to get moving.

  8

  12:05 p.m.

  I had never known the soldier’s name, and so the name Caleb Wardell had meant nothing to me when it was splashed across all those front pages all those years before.

  Although I’d probably seen the mug shot a couple of dozen times in the media, I’d never taken a closer look. Not just because of the beard and the prison coveralls. But because, from a cursory glance, it looked like all the photographs of that type do: It looked like a man who was crazy and dangerous and pleased with himself. The killer’s name and the picture that went with it were unwanted background noise—like a summer pop song, or a ubiquitous commercial. They didn’t belong to the world in which I lived and worked, and so I’d never had a reason to take a closer look, to scratch below the surface, to see the familiarity.

  But the old photograph in the file left no doubt. There was no mistaking the smiling young Marine in front of the flag that stared out at me. No mistaking those eyes.

  Mosul. 2008. It was 112 degrees in the shade. Too many foreigners there for too many different reasons. By then, it had been a long time since Saddam had fallen, and whatever goodwill that had generated among the locals had long since evaporated like piss on hot sand. They didn’t want us there. They sure as hell didn’t want the insurgents there—particularly those who’d taken it on themselves to come on vacation from Pakistan to wage their holy war in somebody else’s backyard.

  The resentment wasn’t just projected across races or nationalities; it was internecine too. The military didn’t want the CIA there, sneaking around, probably starting shit that would make life harder for the grunts. And neither of them wanted the mercenaries there: those Blackwater assholes making big trouble and small fortunes in equal measure.

  And as for us? Nobody wanted us there either. As usual, nobody knew exactly who we were or why we were there. They didn’t need to know in order to form an opinion about us. I guess most people figured we were with one of the other groups. Some of the CIA guys had an inkling, had heard one or two whispered code names for something that had no name. They knew enough to know how much was being kept from them. And that was why they really hated us.

  Mosul. Summer of 2008. Muhammad Rassam. A routine assignment, the best-laid plans royally fucked up by one rogue element with two cold blue eyes.

  I’d looked into them and realized the owner didn’t give a shit whether I pulled the trigger or not. Those eyes conveyed no fear, no emotion, only the cold single-mindedness of a great white shark.

  A dozen dead civilians. One dead million-dollar asset. All because of this cold killer. But I’d followed my orders, and now . . .

  “We’re here.”

  I looked up to see Agent Banner staring across the narrow aisle of the Learjet at me. “You ready for this? You don’t look too . . . alert.” She was looking at me in the manner of a big sister forced to take her kid brother along to a party.

  “Just thinking. Let’s go.”

  She held my gaze a minute longer, skeptical. Then she shot a wary glance at Castle, who was already heading for the open door of the jet. She looked back at me. “You mind if I drive?”

  I shook my head and looked back down at the file in my hand.

  Caleb Wardell. I knew his name now. And twenty dead civilians and counting said I should have put him down when I had the chance.

  9

  12:22 p.m.

  Banner kept her eyes on the road for the most part, occasion­ally flicking them to the right to see what Blake was doing. He was still reading the Wardell file, seemingly deep in concentration. He hadn’t spoken since the plane, hadn’t even glanced out of the window as far as she’d noticed. If not for the whisper of paper as he turned a sheet every few seconds, she could almost forget he was there at all. In the silence, her thoughts shifted to her daughter. Helen—her sister—would be picking Annie up from school as usual, but it was looking likely that she’d have to call and ask her to keep her overnight. Again.

  She shelved the familiar concerns for the moment to focus her attention on overtaking a giant semi. The midmorning traffic was moderate. Although they’d yet to hit rain, they seemed to be chasing it, since the road ahead was perpetually glistening.

  This had been Castle’s idea, her driving from the airport to the crime scene with Blake. He’d taken her aside as they exited the conference room. Personal animosity had tem­porarily disappeared from his voice—from his point of view, she was on his side for the moment. As he watched the other three men, he kept his voice low. “Keep an eye on him,” he’d said. “See if you can work him out.”

  Work him out. She’d agreed readily enough back in the corridor, but thinking about it now, that vague instruction seemed to Banner to carry a lot of demands: Can he help us? Is he going to get in the way, or worse? And can we trust him?

  Who is he?

  So far, Banner had carried out only the first part of Castle’s request: keeping an eye on Blake. Not exactly an achievement, given the fact they were side by side in a gray Bureau SUV doing eighty on the highway. As for the second part, she was no wiser about Blake than she had been when they left the building.

  Initially, her strategy had been to give him the cold shoulder. Perhaps that would encourage him to open up. Blake would probably want to get Banner to warm to him, if only to make her easier to work with. Her strategy had failed miser­ably. Either he was playing the same game—and doing it a good deal more effectively—or he really was as engrossed in that file as he seemed. Reluctantly, she decided to attempt conversation. It felt like a small defeat, like she was blinking first in a staring contest. “Doing your homework?” she asked, making sure to keep her tone cool.

  Blake raised his head from the file. He looked slightly disoriented for a second, as though he had just awakened from a trance, and she knew then that his silence had not been part of a strategy. “Sorry.” He smiled. “I get tunnel vision sometimes.”

  Something in his smile managed to pierce her guard a little, and Banner realized that she had been wrong before: He didn’t
look nondescript at all. Sure, the impression his appearance left you with was “everyman,” but now that she’d spent a little more time with him, she couldn’t help notice the determined line of his jaw, the striking green eyes that seemed to gaze through to your innermost thoughts. She turned her own eyes back to the road quickly. “I don’t care if you don’t say anything at all.”

  If Blake noticed the slight, he didn’t let on. “Just getting caught up on Wardell. Some piece of work, huh?”

  His accent was another thing about him that was difficult to place. Not that it seemed out of place, exactly—more that it was difficult to pin down to any one place. Blake’s voice usually had a generic East-Coast cadence, but occasionally it sounded as though it hailed from farther afield, with an almost British feel. It was the voice of someone who had not grown up in a single, settled community.

  Banner nodded curtly at Blake’s assertion. She hadn’t worked the original Wardell case; it had been a long, ­stiflingly hot summer that year, and she had been working bank robbery. But of course she’d followed the killings with the morbid fascination that everyone else in the Bureau had. Everyone else in the country, for that matter.

  “I thought you jacked in the death penalty in Illinois,” Blake said after a minute.

  “We did,” she answered. “The state did, I mean. But one of the charges Wardell was convicted on was kidnapping. That allowed the DA to bundle everything in as a federal case, which meant he was eligible for death.”

  “Eligible for death,” Blake repeated thoughtfully. Then he shrugged and looked back down at the file. Banner kept looking at the road. The sun found a gap in the clouds and flashed dazzle off the wet road. Banner reached over and located a pair of sunglasses in the glove box. Blake turned more pages; the odometer notched up another three miles before she gave in again and looked at him.