Left without even saying goodbye.
He'd come home from school and had been told that his mom had gone, that she was dead, but he shouldn't worry or be sad because she was now in a 'Better Place', she was in heaven with the angels.
How could that be? How could Mom have gone somewhere so much better, and not taken him with her?
He was only nine years old when it happened. And while he was already smart enough not to trust everyone about everything, he did trust his mom and dad; as they had said, they were the only people in the world you really could rely on, the only people who would always tell you the truth and would always look after you.
Always. For ever and ever.
But it was all a lie, wasn't it?
For weeks she'd been in hospital and he'd missed her. Missed her every day that he was away from her.
'I can't get to sleep, Daddy. When's she coming home? When will Momma be back?'
They'd taken him to visit her in hospital during all those weeks, and every day she looked sadder, thinner and somehow paler. They said she was fighting what they called cancer and it looked to him like this cancer thing was winning but, oh no, they said, your momma's a fighter, she'll be okay, she'll be fine in the end.
Liars. All of them, goddamn liars.
Even when there were those tubes sticking out all over her, his dad had hugged him and told him that he shouldn't be frightened, that they were only there to help his momma get well again.
Well again! How he'd longed for that day.
Sometimes he'd climb on to the hard hospital bed because she was too weak to even sit up and put her arms around him. He'd lie down next to her and cry on her pillow. She'd lift her hand, now all bony and thin, with plasters and tubes sticking out of bruised veins, and stroke his face. Her voice was thin and weak, not the one that used to shout down the garden for him to come inside right now and get his dinner, and it was hard to hear her, but the words were always the same: 'Don't cry, baby, I'll be better soon. Wipe away those tears, Momma will be home very soon now.'
And then, all of a sudden, she was gone. Gone to heaven. Gone to the Better Place without him.
Where are you, Momma? I'm waiting. Still waiting.
Given time, Spider might have recovered from the traumatic loss of his mother, but sometimes fate can be cruel, and sometimes that cruelty can have lifelong consequences. Within only weeks of his mother's death, his father, Spider's emotional anchor during this critical period of grieving, was knocked down and killed by a police patrol car turning out on a fake 911 call made by local kids who just wanted to see the cruisers zip by with their blues and reds flashing.
Spider's pine bed is high-sided, like the one he had as a child. Only this one is coffin-shaped. He built it himself, using the tools of his dead father. The bottom of the bed contains a deep, space-saving, slide-out drawer. Inside, Spider keeps pictures of his parents, newspaper clippings about his father's death and some other precious mementos – his trophies. Stripped of flesh and muscle, boiled and scrubbed squeaky-clean are the bony joints of victims' fingers lying like a stack of stumpy chopsticks. He had no desire to retain their hands. He cut them off solely because it made it quicker and easier for him to get to the finger he wanted, the wedding finger. And when he did, he took care to slice off his precious trophy without damaging it. At the back of the drawer, wrapped in a handkerchief, is also a collection of cheap and expensive engagement and wedding rings.
Spider sits naked on the bed's padded red mattress and out of habit plays with the gold chain around his neck. On it are his dead mother's wedding and engagement rings. He raises them to his mouth and kisses them. He thinks of her for a moment and then lets go of the chain. From the side of the bed he picks up a plastic canister, twists the top and shakes its contents into the palm of a hand. Slowly, he spreads white talcum powder all over his body, until he's white, entirely white.
White as a corpse.
As white as Momma's face in the Chapel of Rest.
Spider lies down and looks up at his Window to Heaven. On the other side, he's sure, really sure, he can see Momma in the Better Place, her dead white arms stretching out to embrace him.
24
West Village, SoHo, New York There were two reasons Howie Baumguard couldn't sleep – one was food and the other was homicide. Right now, he reckoned his plate was filled with far too much of one and far too little of the other. Bare-chested and bare-footed, with his grumbling stomach rolling over some string-tied blue cotton pyjama bottoms, he tiptoed downstairs, trying not to wake the rest of the family. For some time he'd managed to fool himself that he resembled Tony Soprano. Maybe thinning too much up top and certainly thickening too much around the middle, but still a force to be reckoned with. A good shave, a splash of cologne and a jazzy shirt and he always felt great. Great, that was, until his stick-insect wife told him he looked more like the Doughboy monster in Ghostbusters than James Gandolfini, who even she conceded was so big he was as sexy as hell. So last night, at the end of a gruelling day, he'd come home to a shrink-wrapped shrimp salad and zero-fat milk for his dinner. Man, is there no fun left in life? Well, screw her and screw the calories, now is munch time.
'Look out, Fridge, Howie's coming in!' he said as he pulled open the double doors of the larder. His face lit up as brightly as the interior light. He grabbed a foil-wrapped cold chicken and waltzed it to the kitchen table, along with a jar of cranberry jelly. The rollover stainless-steel bread bin yielded more treasure: great slabs of white bread and a jelly-doughnut (left by Howie Jnr, who already seemed to have eaten three out of the four-pack).
For good measure Howie popped a can of beer and took a long slug before settling down in the cool of the kitchen. He ripped off a leg of chicken and gnawed away at the delicious meat. A heavy sprinkle of bad-for-your-heart salt turned it from good into fantastic. He knew he was eating for comfort – and, boy, it was working. Another deep hit of beer and he felt a thousand times better than he had done for the last two sleepless hours, sloped on his side feeling hungry and worrying about the call that he was about to make.
Howie unplugged his cell phone from the charger on the kitchen worktop and hit the speed dial for Jack King. It took an age to connect. Finally an Italian ring tone kicked in and a woman's voice answered.
'Buon giorno, hello, La Casa Strada. I am Maria, how may I help you?'
Howie immediately thought of a couple of ways in which a girl with a voice as sexy as hers could help him, both of which would instantly get him on the path to divorce, so instead he stuck to his main reason for calling. 'Hi there, I'm ringing from America and I'm trying to get hold of Jack King. Could you please put me through to him?'
He felt bad because good old Jack was no doubt enjoying a fine Tuscan morning and now his old buddy Howie was about to turn all that into a ball of elephant crap.
'I am sorry, Signore King he is not here at the moment. Would you like to be speaking with Signora King?'
Given the option, Howie would rather shave his own eyeballs than risk a dressing-down from Nitric Nancy.
'Yeah, put me through please,' he said, wincing while he waited. Man, Nancy had really scorched him a few times in the past. Fact was, she and Howie had never really hit it off. In the early days, he was sure she'd resented how much time he and Jack had spent together. Then at the end, well, even though she'd never said it, he knew she partly blamed him for Jack's breakdown.
'Hello, Howie?' said Nancy, a hint of incredulity in her voice. 'What are you doing calling at this time?'
Hell, that kind of put him on the spot. What could he say now? Well, Nancy, someone's mailed the severed head of the victim of a twenty-year-old murder to your husband and I was just wondering when he could swing by and pick it up? Nope, that didn't seem a runner.
Howie went for a safer option. 'Hi, Nancy, I'm up out of bed raiding the fridge, but I need to speak to Jack, we need to chat about some stuff.'
'What stuff?' said Nancy, quicker than a New Je
rsey switchblade.
'Just an old case. Some new evidence has kinda cropped up. Any idea when I can get him?'
Nancy knew she was being blanked, knew it as surely as when that female Italian detective refused to tell her why she'd called. And she also knew there was no point asking Jack's old buddy if there was any connection or not.
'Howie, is this going to hurt us? Right now Jack is still on the mend, and, you know, we really could do without any extra stress.' She found herself scratching at her neck, a nervous habit that she thought she had under control. 'Tell me honestly, is this going to set him back?'
Howie needed to drain the last of the beer can before he could answer her. 'Truth is, Nancy, we're going to have to reopen the BRK files, and there's a good chance the press are going to be dragging up lots of old stuff on Jack.'
'Oh my God!'
'I'm real sorry,' said Howie, hearing her catching her breath on the other end of the line. 'Are you okay?'
She breathed out hard. 'No, I'm not, Howie. I'm really not okay.'
The good feeling that the beer and chicken had given him vanished. Howie knew it'd take more than a food-high to stop him feeling bad about this one. 'Nancy, can you at least see that it's best that I talk to Jack first? Best that I fill him in before he starts catching things on the news or in the papers?'
'Howie, I don't know. I can't even think straight at the moment. Jack is in Florence, I'll have him call you when he gets back.'
'Thanks,' said Howie, pushing the plate of chicken away.
'Sure,' said Nancy, her voice tinged with bitterness. 'By the way, Carrie's right – you are a fat selfish pig who thinks more about the FBI than about anything that should really matter to you.'
The line was dead before Howie could even think of a reply. It was just gone four a.m. but there was only one thing to do now, and that was open another can of beer.
25
Florence – Siena, Tuscany Jack read the case documentation twice. He turned back to the handwritten covering letter and dialled the cell phone number of Massimo Albonetti. The outskirts of Florence faded behind him as the train rattled and rumbled towards Siena.
'Pronto,' said a strong, male Italian voice, the 'r' sounding as richly deep as if it had rolled out of the mouth of an opera-trained baritone.
'Massimo, it's Jack – Jack King.'
'Aaah, Jack,' Massimo responded warmly, hoping his former FBI colleague had not been too disturbed by his request for help. 'My friend, how are you?'
'I'm fine, Mass,' said Jack, picturing 'the old goat' at his desk in Rome, no doubt with an espresso on one side and a cigarette burning in an ashtray on the other. 'I'm sure your young inspector has reported back to you.'
Massimo cleared his voice, coughing politely into his hand. 'Forgive me, please. I am so sorry I couldn't be there toask youin person. Jack, you've seen the file, so you know why I needed you to see it so urgently.'
'Yeah, I understand, Mass. No hard feelings, we go back too far for that.' Jack recalled one of the many long nights they'd spent together, Italian reds to start with, American bourbon to finish. 'I'd have probably done the same thing myself.'
Massimo could hear Jack was on a train, knew he was returning to a family he was now being asked to turn his back on. 'Jack, I wouldn't have asked this of you if I thought we could solve this case without you. This man, this killer, no one knows him like you do.'
Jack frowned. He was under no illusions about what joining the investigation could cost him. 'It's hardcore, Massimo. Hunting this creep nearly robbed me of everything.'
Massimo felt awful. 'iz. I know this. If I was not a policeman, then I would advise you not to get involved. As a friend, I would urge you to stay away and think only of yourself and your family. But Jack, I am a policeman, and so are you. And I know that only you can make a big difference. I know your skills, and with your assistance we have every chance of catching this man.'
Sunlight blazed across an outspreading quilt of patterned green countryside. Jack stared towards the tree-lined horizon. Had BRK really been here? Had he brought his madness across the continents and poisoned this beautiful land with his bloodshed and barbarism?
'The Barbuggiani case, there can be no mistaking any of the critical details?'
'No,' said Massimo unhesitatingly. 'There is no mistake,' he added, draining the last thick dregs of the inevitable espresso. 'You are thinking about the hand, Jack, aren't you?'
Dozens of images flickered through Jack's mind: the faces of women, the white morgue sheets being whipped back to reveal skeleton remains, the stumps of young girls' arms from which the monster had hacked away his prize, the left hand – always the left hand – the hand of marriage.
Massimo pulled on his cigarette. He wished he were face to face with his friend, glasses of something strong on a table between them, something to numb the shock he was sure Jack was feeling, something to remind them of old times. He blew out the smoke and tried not to make his words sound too hard. 'There is no mistake. This man, he severed the hand in the same way as your other cases.'
'Where?' pressed Jack. 'In the notes it's not clear exactly where he made the cut.'
'The incision was around the lower carpals.' Massimo picked a speck of tobacco from his tongue. 'It was a diagonal cut, slicing between the carpals and the ulna and radius bones.'
Jack started to sweat. His mind filled with more flashbacks, this time of the killer, not his victims. He saw the man at work, moving slowly and carefully, preparing meticulously for what he was about to do. The monster manoeuvring his victim's arm into position – was she alive at the time? Amputation attempts on the first victims were crude and sickeningly experimental; there were chisel marks and hesitant saw lines, chipping and gouging on bone, signs that maybe a hammer had been used to try to smash off his trophies. But that quickly became a thing of the past; soon BRK got himself the right tools for the job, no doubt read up on where to make the most effective cuts.
'Are you still there, Jack?' said Massimo. 'I can't hear you.'
'A bad line,' said Jack. 'Tell me, Mass – what had your guy used to cut with?' He steadied himself for the answer.
'Some kind of professional hacksaw. By the look of the teeth marks it's a bone saw, maybe an autopsy saw, most probably a butcher's bone saw.'
'Shit!' said Jack. 'Were the teeth on the saw clean, or were any of them broken?'
'Not clean,' confirmed Massimo. 'It was an old saw. It had been used before. Forensics say they think it's most likely a 35- or 40-centimetre blade with two sets of damaged teeth.'
'Thirty-five to 40, what's that, 15, 16 inches?'
Massimo confirmed the conversion. 'That's about right.'
'Let me guess,' said Jack. 'The first breaks come in a cluster of three. Then there's an undamaged stretch of teeth running for about 7 inches, that's roughly 17 centimetres, and then one more damaged tooth, slanting to the left.'
'Hard to say,' said Massimo. 'There's certainly evidence of some broken teeth. Jack, I'm afraid it's the same man. There can be no doubt about it.'
Jack couldn't speak. It was all still sinking in. Just over twenty-four hours ago he'd travelled to Florence seeking what Nancy called 'closure'. Now everything was very much open again. Wide open, like an infected wound that refuses to heal up.
Massimo waited patiently. Down the line he could hear silence and then the sound of a passing train. He knew his friend was struggling to come to terms with it all.
'Okay. I'm in,' said Jack decisively. 'I'll help you. There's no choice really. I have to give this another shot. I'll call you on a better line when I'm at home in San Quirico and we can work out the logistics from there.'
'Va bene. Molto bene, grazie,' said Massimo gently. He was going to add something else but the line went dead; Jack had already hung up.
Massimo held the phone in one hand and tapped it thoughtfully into the palm of the other, before returning it to the cradle. There were still some things he hadn't told Jack a
bout Cristina Barbuggiani's murder; disturbing facts he could now only tell him when he saw him in person.
26
West Village, SoHo, New York The first strokes of a watercolour dawn were being painted across New York as Howie settled down at the desk by a window in his den. Sometimes he worked better in the early hours, when his mind was clear of the clutter that came cascading in as soon as he set foot in the office.
The Bigwigs back in Virginia had now officially asked him to reopen the BRK case and he needed every waking second of the day to start ramping up the enquiry. They'd tasked him with putting together a small team (nothing over budget) to re-examine evidence and work with the cops in Georgetown to see whether the desecration of Sarah Kearney's grave gave them anything new.
Howie nursed a mug of black coffee and began to wade through a forest of background paperwork he'd hauled home from the office. He started with the computerized statistical and psychological profiles that had been produced by PROFILER and VICAP, the FBI's two main serial-killer computer systems. BRK took up a zillion gigs of data, and the depth of the study was making things tougher not easier. The stats were hard to stomach at any time of day, but pre-breakfast, they were totally unpalatable. More than thirty thousand witness statements spread across forty cities, spanning twenty years. More than eighty thousand vehicle-check entries, more than two thousand previous offender study cases. Howie felt his will to live draining from him. Man, the fingerprint checking alone was enough to reduce you to tears. IAFIS, the FBI's own Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, had run more than seven thousand sets of prints through its database, making comparisons with more than forty million cases on its Criminal Master File, and had generated more than ten thousand latent fingerprint reports. On top of that, they'd used cutting-edge science to lift dozens of DNA traces out of the prints themselves. The boffins behind CODIS, the Bureau's Combined DNA Index System, had pumped their databases but the genetic profiles that they extracted hadn't matched any known offenders. In the old days, the problem had been that science hadn't been good enough to retrieve vital evidence; these days the difficulty was reversed. There was so much evidence; it was exhausting to work out what had come from the victim, the attacker or just innocent people whose paths had crossed a criminal crossroads. So how much closer had all the technology and science brought them to finding their man?
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