Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  "Dad?"

  Jordan whirled around and saw Ryan.

  Will let out a choking sob and jumped free of his father's arms, grabbing his younger brother.

  Jordan dropped to his knees, staring at his son. The thrill of having him back was halted momentarily by the sight of a blue birthday hat strapped on his head. Fear rumbled through him like an earthquake.

  "Looks like he just joined someone's birthday party," the guard commented.

  Jordan pulled the hat off and dropped it beside Ryan, afraid to look at it. He touched the boy's face, looking him over to be sure he wasn't hurt. "Are you okay?"

  Ryan nodded in silence.

  His hands still holding both of his sons, Jordan looked down at the hat. From the outside, it looked just like the others except the color. There had been red, orange, yellow, green, and now blue... on his own son. Was it just his imagination or was it really the same hat that the killer had been putting on his victims? Looking inside, he cringed at the words scrawled in black marker.

  "Not the gangsters you should fear."

  Jordan leapt to his feet and searched the corridor. He turned to Ryan and motioned to the hat. "Who gave this to you?"

  "A man."

  Jordan inhaled quickly. "What did he look like, Ry? Was he black or white?"

  "White."

  "Short or tall?"

  The boy furrowed his brow. "Tall."

  "What color hair?"

  Ryan's face crumpled as he started to cry. "I don't know, Dad. He just took my arm and told me he was your boss. He looked like a policeman. He even had a badge. He said if I didn't listen, you'd be in big trouble. I was scared, Dad. He was scary. Big and scary." The boy started to cry.

  Will was crying, too.

  Jordan held both boys and soon, he was crying, too. He was failing. He'd let the madman touch Ryan, touch his own child. Ryan was safe now, but Jordan had let him down. The killer could have taken him, could have killed him. Jordan knew he should try to find the killer, but he couldn't. Right now he couldn't bear to let go of his children.

  Chapter 15

  Jamie looked over at Aaron. "You do not know her," he said, firing the last rubber band on his wooden gun at the girl on the TV.

  "Do, too," Aaron said, pulling rubber bands over the trigger of his own gun.

  Jamie stood and gathered the shot bands from the floor beneath the TV, and then returned to his spot beside Aaron.

  "I saw her," Aaron continued.

  Jamie looked up at the girl on the screen. She looked a little like Cindy, a girl in his class. Only Cindy had a bigger nose, and this girl was cuter. It was probably the nose. "Where?"

  Aaron shot the gun, and the rubber band hit the girl on TV square in the forehead. "Bull's eye," he screamed.

  "Try two at once," Jamie said, strapping two rubber bands onto one peg and then pulling the trigger and watching them both release. The two bands snapped against the girl's eyes on the TV. "She's blind!"

  Aaron laughed.

  Jamie looked back at the girl. She didn't look familiar to him. "You really know her? Is she famous or something?"

  Aaron shrugged. "I never seen her on TV before. She was in the mall when I was there."

  "When did you go there?"

  He shrugged. "Last week or something."

  Jamie looked at the girl again. "You think she's cute?"

  "No!" Aaron said, his eyes wide. He made a disgusted face.

  "Then, why do you remember her?"

  Aaron glanced at the TV. " 'Cause her dad was a policeman."

  "Really?" Jamie looked at her, too. "That's cool."

  "Yeah. I wish my dad was a policeman."

  "Me, too. Then, you could ride in the cars and stuff."

  Aaron nodded. "And they'd let you turn on the sirens and drive really fast."

  "The police drive really fast." Jamie looked over at Aaron. "Why was the policeman in the mall? Was he arresting someone?"

  Aaron shot the TV with his rubber-band gun. "I don't know."

  "Did you see any bad guys?"

  Aaron shook his head.

  Jamie looked back at his gun. "I want to see some bad guys. Think they look different?"

  "Of course."

  "How?" Jamie asked.

  Aaron shrugged. "Bad."

  Jamie nodded. "Did you go to the toy store? There's a new Lego set. It's a spaceship, and the guys have the real suits and helmets that come off. I played with it at Ricky's house. Ricky has all of them."

  Aaron looked down. "My mom wouldn't let me look."

  "I'm going to get it for my birthday," Jamie announced. His mom had told him his birthday was less than a hundred days away. That sounded like a lot, but she said it wasn't that far.

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. You can come over and play with it."

  "Really?" Aaron smiled. "Thanks."

  "Sure." Jamie aimed at the TV again, but the picture had changed to a man standing, waving his arms to a crowd of people. He snapped up the remote control and flipped the channels. A woman in a bathing suit was running on the beach.

  Aaron snapped his gun and hit the woman in the breast. "I got her boob."

  They both laughed and rolled over.

  "Her boob," Jamie repeated, laughing so hard snot flew out of his nose. He wiped it with the back of his hand.

  The door opened, and his mom came in. "Do you boys want a snack?"

  "Yeah," Jamie and Aaron said in unison and headed for the kitchen.

  Chapter 16

  Pulling his knees close to his chest, he studied the flickering light from the old television, straining to hear the mayor's voice over the crackle of static.

  "It is with incredible anger and outrage that I stand before you today. Four of our children have been brutally murdered."

  He smiled and leaned closer, the mayor's sense of drama increasing his excitement.

  "These children were not out walking alone. Nor were they grabbed in the darkness. These children were stolen in the middle of the day..." He gave a profound pause. "Stolen from the centers of our community, under the watchful eyes of their parents while at crowded shopping malls." The mayor shook his head, playing up the intense emotion. The reporters were silent but for the occasional click of a camera.

  Moving his chair closer to the TV, he wished he could be there, to watch in person.

  "This monster has invaded the security of our community. But he will not be allowed to continue."

  Smiling, he rocked lightly in his chair, a delighted charge singing his awareness. They were talking about him. The same man that Indiana University had dared to reject from its premed program. He crumpled his fists and remembered his mother's smile as he told her. He and his sister and his mother had all gathered at the house that night—but they had not come to comfort him. They'd been together to celebrate his sister's birthday. They had offered no condolences for his rejection. Instead, they had mocked him—made fun at his lowest hour. That had been their gravest error.

  He could still picture his mother's face as he had showed her what a skilled surgeon he was—showed her on her own daughter. If Indiana could see his work now, what a master surgeon he had become. He would apply again. He would finish his work here and go back. They would not deny him again. He unclenched his fists and let out his breath, commanding his muscles to unwind and his anger to drain.

  "I am here to urge us all, as a community, to come together to fight this predator," the mayor continued. "The families will be holding a vigil this Sunday evening at dusk. We will announce the location as soon as it is known. I hope to see the aid and attendance of the community to support the families of the deceased. By attending, each of us is making the public announcement that we will fight violence, and especially violence against children.

  "I assure you—" the mayor shouted, raising his arms like a preacher. "I assure you that the San Francisco Police Department is using all available resources to find the man responsible for this." The mayor looked over his
shoulder. "But the department needs your help. I would like to introduce the chief of the San Francisco Police Department, Bill Jackson."

  Calmer, he wrapped his arms around his knees and leaned forward, his nose only inches from the set. "Bill Jackson," he muttered.

  "What do you think you're doing, Joe?"

  He straightened his back and turned to the desk, his face flushing red with fury. Joe Tharpe was his name at work, and he hated how plain it was.

  His boss Dwayne leaned over the desk, his gut like a thick balloon begging to be popped. Stroking his graying mustache with his short, cork-like fingers, Dwayne raised his brow and waited for him to respond. Dwayne's brown eyes sagged into his face, and he imagined his face without any eyes.

  "I was listening about the kids that were killed," he answered, furious at his own feeling of helplessness. He hated Dwayne's bullying. He was suddenly a kid again, helpless.

  "You ain't paid to watch the TV, moron. I ain't having someone fuck up things on my shift."

  He clenched his teeth, unable to find a quick reply.

  Dwayne leaned forward until his face was inches away. "You're paid to watch those monitors. You hear?"

  He forced himself to nod.

  "You a mute?" Dwayne asked, breathing foul cigarette breath in his face.

  "I heard you," he answered, boring his gaze into Dwayne's forehead and commanding Dwayne's head to explode.

  "Get up, then."

  He stood, and Dwayne put out his foot as he moved to pass, tripping him.

  He landed on all fours, feeling the hard marble floor against his knees. Eccymosis from that fall, for sure. He'd always bruised easily.

  "One more time, and I'll have you fired, Joe. And I don't know where a screw-up like you's going to find another job."

  He picked himself off the floor and stared after Dwayne as he laughed and headed back down the empty corridor. Anger seethed like acid, etching holes in his control. He lifted the two-way radio from the desk, gripping it tight in his fist as he counted to five and then followed Dwayne.

  It was time to leave this job, anyway. His plan was coming to a head, and there wouldn't be time to waste here. Tomorrow he would see Casey. He would touch her. Billy had already planned it. Imagining his hands on her filled him with power. Control. Dwayne had tried to strip him of control. But it had been a fatal mistake.

  The senior guard waddled down the hallway like a penguin, his belly obstructing the motion of his legs.

  Halting at the far end, he paused until Dwayne had turned the corner, knowing where he was headed. Thankfully, it was after ten o'clock, and the building was quiet. Still, people came and went at all hours, especially from the investment-banking firm on the thirty-sixth floor. He would have to be swift.

  He paused at the door to the small utility room and listened. The familiar sounds of TV leaked under the door. Dwayne considered the closet his office, and he had somehow managed to rig it with cable TV. As far as he could tell, Dwayne spent his nights watching porn movies and jacking off. And Dwayne had the nerve to call him a moron.

  Easing the door open, he saw Dwayne sitting with his back to the door. He crept through the small opening and quietly shut the door behind him.

  A woman with huge breasts that filled the screen was bobbing up and down, panting and moaning. The camera zoomed to her crotch. The bobbing motion grew faster as her moans grew louder. Dwayne began to rock in his chair, his hand out of sight.

  TV sex or violence had never been much of a turn-on. It was all so much better live. He moved up behind Dwayne and raised the radio above his head. As the woman climaxed with a piercing scream, he slammed the radio down on Dwayne's head. The senior guard fell forward out of his chair and onto the floor.

  Adrenaline's acid burned through him as he stepped forward and flipped the body over and pressed his hand to Dwayne's neck. His boss's pulse was clear, and he was pleased. He had plans for Dwayne, clear plans for his death. He shut off the TV, the sounds of moaning distracting from his own excitement. Dwayne would provide the sound effects for pleasure.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his penknife and snapped it open. He spotted Dwayne's overcoat and cut slices from it. He tied Dwayne's hands and feet and then bunched a small piece of fabric into his mouth, careful not to press it back too far. In an unconscious victim, it would be easy to push a gag back too far and suffocate him by forcing his epiglottis or tongue to occlude the airway. That would be far too pleasant a way to go for Dwayne.

  Dwayne moaned, and his eyes shuttered open and closed again. He straddled him, poised to strike him when he was awake enough to process what was about to happen and to be afraid. Excited and empowered, he couldn't wait to see the fear in the other man's eyes.

  Chapter 17

  "Again," he shouted, the South African accent adding a spicy flavor to his scratchy voice. "Same sequence."

  Sweat dripped across her eyes as Casey pumped her arms.

  "Talk to me," Frank yelled. "Got to make sure you're still breathing." He paused as she finished the sequence. "Again."

  "Jab, jab, head shot, head shot, hook, hook, undercut, undercut." Casey snapped her gloved hands out, landing the punches with muffled slaps against the bag. Her shoulders ached, but she didn't slouch.

  For four straight mornings, Frank had watched her like a hawk. As soon as he saw her weaken, he made her stop. She was getting stronger, but not nearly fast enough.

  "One more time," Frank shouted.

  "Jab, jab, head shot, head shot, hook, hook, undercut, undercut," she said, panting.

  "That's it. Let's go to the mat and do sit-ups."

  Breathing heavily, Casey would have liked to continue, but she was too exhausted to argue. For four days, she had worked daily on regaining her strength. Starting in the morning, she sat with a foam squeeze toy in each hand, forcing her fingers open and shut, fighting to close her grip. Though her left hand seemed to be slowly regaining some power, her right hand still felt helpless. The hand's dexterity had improved only slightly more than the strength. She still couldn't maneuver a button without a ten-minute struggle.

  Her knee, on the other hand, felt much improved. Wearing the brace that the orthopedic surgeon had made for her after the accident, she'd jogged up the hills near her house and then walked down them backward.

  She'd also changed some things around the house. She'd had a full, fancy alarm system installed over the old one, changed the locks on all the doors, added bolts, and strengthened the window locks. She'd also had a lock added to the main electricity panel, and the alarm system now ran a five-foot perimeter around the house as well as to all doors and windows.

  The alarm system itself had done nothing to ease Casey or her checkbook, but she knew the killer had seen it was there and that made her feel better. She had also pulled out the old case files she'd hidden away in a suitcase when they'd moved out to California. She had reviewed her old notes and added new thoughts as things occurred to her, sharing them with Jordan when they spoke.

  She had a full profile on Leonardo again, most of it matching what she'd had originally—loner, above-average intelligence, thirty to thirty-five, well kept, college educated. She thought about the language he had used in her attack. Look for a medical job history—nurse or ambulance technician, maybe a coroner's assistant. Every time she boxed, she pictured him in a bit fuller detail, adding each new clue to her list until she knew him as well as she knew herself.

  "Too hard today, McKinley."

  "I'm okay," she argued.

  Frank shook his head, laying his hand on her shoulder. His dark eyes scolded her. "Too hard."

  She started to lower herself to the mat. "I need to get stronger." She leaned back and raised herself up with the first sit-up. The muscles in her abdomen seemed to tear from her rib cage. She felt bruised and beaten. For some reason, the sensation was almost comforting.

  Frank knelt beside her and caught her on her next sit-up. He gripped her hands. "I know you're impatie
nt, but rushing, it's not going to help. You need to build endurance, and that takes time."

  "I don't have time."

  He shook his head lightly. "You got time."

  Casey freed her hands and continued her sit-ups.

  Shaking his head, Frank walked away.

  Casey felt her legs begin to shake as she reached forty-three. Teeth clenched, she pushed herself. Only seven more. Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six.

  "One thousand, four hundred and sixteen..."

  Casey looked up and caught Jordan Gray's face upside down, staring at her. Forcing herself to make it to fifty, she laid back and put her arms up over her head to catch her breath.

  "You wonder what I'm doing here?"

  She shrugged, too breathless to respond.

  "Frank said you might need a ride home. And I've got news."

  Despite the ache in her belly, Casey sat up, imagining what the news might be. The pain in her stomach tightened and sank like a heavy weight into her gut. This pain didn't come from the sit-ups, and somehow it wasn't one she could fight off like she used to. "Another child?"

  Jordan shook his head, lowering his eyes to the floor.

  Watching his face, though, she could tell that something had happened. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them dark and puffy. It almost looked as though he'd been crying.

  "Your family?"

  His gaze snapped back to hers, and she knew she was right.

  Jordan put out his hand, and she took it, letting him pull her up. On her feet, she touched his arm. "Are they all right?"

  The muscle in his jaw tightened and loosened. Finally, he looked up and said, "Fine. No thanks to me."

  "What happened? Was he at your house?"

  "Get your stuff. I'll tell you on the way home."

  * * *

  Casey watched Jordan pull out of the gym parking lot and head down Broadway toward Piedmont Avenue. Broadway was quieter now than it had been when she'd cabbed down this morning at six. At six o'clock on a Saturday morning, people were still emerging from Biff's all-night diner. Casey watched a tall black man emerge with a woman on either arm. His dark glasses at the early hour indicated it had been a long night. The length of his companions' skirts indicated the women were used to long nights.