Lucy shook her head. “Just don’t mess it up, fat ass.”
Donaldson made a sad, three-fingered fist, and pounded on the door.
After a while, slow, heavy footsteps approached from the other side.
As soon as the door cracked open, Donaldson shoved the Beretta into the homeowner’s face.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Um…Violet.”
“Are you alone?”
A hesitation, then, “Yes.”
“We’d like to talk to you, Violet. You can open the door, or I can blow your brains out the back of your head. Your call.”
The door opened.
Lucy’s heart rate accelerated. It was an even bigger rush than morphine. God, she missed this shit.
They forced their way inside, Lucy deadbolting the door behind her.
The place stunk of stale cigarettes and beer and desperation. She turned to look at Violet, amused to find a morbidly obese woman in a housedress so big it could’ve been a circus tent. Except there wouldn’t be any customers who’d pay to sit under that big top.
Lucy remembered back to a guy who’d given her a ride. Before she’d met Donaldson. A long time ago. A lifetime ago.
The driver had been fat.
He’d also been a lot of fun.
Every extra pound of fat a person carried required an extra three and a half miles of veins and arteries to supply it with blood.
Which meant that fatties bled.
A lot.
And Lucy loved blood.
March 31, 8:30 P.M.
Luther stands glaring at the desk clerk.
“No, that won’t work. I need a room on the twelfth floor.”
“Sir, here at the Renaissance Blackstone, we strive to make—”
“Yeah, I don’t give a shit about that. I just want a room on the twelfth floor.”
The desk clerk sighs but maintains her pleasant exterior. She turns her attention back to the computer screen, fingers tapping furiously at the keys. “Sir, all we have is a suite, but—”
“I’ll take it.”
“—it’s four seventy-five a night.”
Luther reaches into his wallet and throws down the stolen plastic.
• • •
It takes him five minutes to get the screws out of the windowpane in his suite on the twelfth floor, and even then, the window will only crack open six inches—suicide prevention measures.
But it’s all he needs.
He reaches down into his duffle bag and lifts out the bubble-wrapped package. Sitting on the windowsill, he has to press his face into the glass to get a decent look down the twelve floors to Michigan Avenue.
Lots of cars out, but pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk is fairly light.
He shoves the package through the opening in the window and watches it fall.
• • •
Three minutes later, Luther pushes through the revolving doors and walks outside.
A fine drizzle is falling.
He moves twenty feet up the sidewalk and stops where the package has finally come to rest after a hard bounce that had nearly taken it into Michigan Avenue.
Reaches down, lifts it, cuts through the packing tape with his Harpy.
It takes him a moment to unwrap the numerous layers, but he finally gets down to the device, which looks intact.
Moment of truth.
He slides the release button to power it up.
He smiles.
Damn sturdy piece of engineering.
March 31, 9:00 P.M.
I stared at my computer screen, looking at the crime scene photos Herb had e-mailed me, trying to make sense of it.
Two people killed for no apparent reason, beyond sending me some kind of message.
But what was the message? For me to be afraid?
Got that. Loud and clear.
“Hungry?” Phin asked, poking his head through the door. He was still mad at me, and had refused to accept my apologies or even discuss what happened earlier.
I could have gone for some ice cream, or nachos, or sardines—better yet, all of the above mashed into a single bowl—but I told him, “I’m okay.”
He left without replying.
I’d walked Duffy when I got home from Violet’s, but he hadn’t given up the goods. I wondered if feeding a dog a box of laxatives was dangerous. I also wondered, after the ring appeared, if I’d even want to wear it knowing where it had been.
Assuming I said yes to Phin’s proposal.
Assuming that proposal was even still on the table.
I turned back to the monitor, staring at the photograph of the large cardboard box labeled FISH FOOD.
There had been another book, this one the Andrew Z. Thomas thriller The Killer and His Weapon, found in a baggie in Marquette’s stomach. The baggie read:
JD, HE DEVOURED THIS BOOK IN ONE SITTING, LK
Luther Kite had again bent over a corner to bookmark a section from chapter one, page 151, and another letter p had been circled—this time, the one in the word pleasure.
The Killer and His Weapon ~ Andrew Z. Thomas
He saw it at once—a revelation.
Walls coming down all around him.
Restraints unlocking.
Chains falling away.
Good and evil, these contrived lenses through which humanity viewed itself, was a fraud. There was no law. No law but that to which he chose to hold himself. Anything less was weakness. Adherence to illusion. He was above all, above everything, the God of his own world, and in that moment he knew how he would live henceforth. To which code of ethics he would subscribe and none other.
The world was wide and life was short and there was so much beauty to be had.
He would honor his will.
Seek the means to his pleasure.
He rose up from the rock where he’d been sitting, lost in thought for the last seven hours, and roared from the top of the twelve-thousand-foot mountain, the sun blinding in his eyes, awash in pure mountain light, his voice reverberating off the surrounding peaks, racing down into the vast green forest. He had never in all his life felt so strong, so filled with joy, so invincible.
Tonight, he thought, as he started down the mountain, so light on his feet he half-believed he could take flight, glide down over the valley like some terrible bird.
Yes.
He would begin his new life tonight.
Remember tonight…for it is the beginning of always.
Start by embracing that impulse he’d shunned just yesterday when they’d stopped by his campfire to say hello.
Start by killing that young couple in the tent across the stream.
151
I read the page again and again, and then went back and reread the excerpt from The Scorcher, trying to understand why these pages had been marked. What was Luther telling me? Were these clues? Or was he just playing mind games?
There had been witnesses at the aquarium who saw Luther drop off the cardboard box. He’d been wearing a blue work uniform and driving a white van, though no one could recall the make, model, or license plate number.
Herb had already interviewed both of the families of the victims, and at first blush, there didn’t appear to be any connection between the two, other than the curious fact that Marquette had been dumped at the Shedd Aquarium, and the first victim had been named Jessica Shedd. But Jessica had no association with the aquarium at all.
It puzzled me in a needling sort of way, like I was missing something as it stared right in my face.
Fingerprints found on the box belonged to Luther Kite.
Fingerprints found on the book belonged to Andrew Z. Thomas.
I mulled that over. Had Luther somehow gotten one of Andrew’s personal copies in an attempt to make it seem like Thomas was involved? Or perhaps Thomas wasn’t locked up in Violet’s basement, as the literary agent had suggested, but in Kite’s.
The thought of being the captive of a psychopath since 2004 made me shive
r.
I had another thought. I’d forgotten to take a picture of the plastic bag that read JACK D—THIS ONE WAS A REAL SWINGER—LK in black marker. Since I had a sample of Thomas’s handwriting from the letter he’d sent his agent, it was possible to compare the two and determine if they matched. If they did, that was pretty solid evidence that Andrew Z. Thomas was still alive.
I texted Herb, asking for pics of both bags.
Then I reread the Scorcher excerpt, my eyes lingering on the last line of the page.
“A little spark is followed by a great flame.”
That sounded like a quote I’d heard before.
I Googled it.
Hmm.
It was from Dante Alighieri, writer of The Divine Comedy. Curious, I went through the remainder of the text, feeding each sentence into Google, but the remaining hits were all bootleg e-book excerpts from The Scorcher. I repeated the process with the second book and came up with similar results until I searched on the line: Remember tonight…for it is the beginning of always.
Dante again.
I doubted that was a coincidence. I perused Dante’s Wikipedia page, wondering what connection a poet from the Middle Ages might possibly have to these murders. Then I surfed over to Amazon.com and found a free copy of The Divine Comedy for my Kindle app. I also checked out the page for The Scorcher, which was $12.99—a ridiculous price for an e-book, especially one so old. But I bought it—even cognizant of the fact that the royalties went straight to Violet King’s beer-and-cigarette fund—and then spent ten minutes scanning through the several hundred customer reviews.
The Scorcher averaged three stars. Many were five-star praises, but an equal number were one-star wonders from people who seemed shocked that a thriller about a serial killer who burned his victims alive contained scenes of graphic violence.
Halfway into the fourth page of reviews, I came across one that made me do a double-take.
Thomas wrote this book as an ode to the seventh circle of hell in Dante’s Inferno, illustrated through the anti-hero’s journey away from God and toward this inner ring. By embracing violence, he embraces his own downfall.
While that review seemed more insightful than most, it was the reviewer’s name that caught me by surprise.
ALONEAGAIN.
Same screen name as the one who left those messages to me on Andrew Z. Thomas’s message board.
I clicked on the name, but it took me to another screen which informed me that “This customer has not created a profile yet.” I checked for other reviews by ALONEAGAIN, and found several, all of them for Andrew Z. Thomas novels.
I surfed over to the review for The Killer and His Weapon.
Thomas continues the Alighieri allegory (grin), focusing on the fifth circle of the inferno, anger. How are your anger issues, Jack?
I reflexively looked around my office, suddenly feeling as though I was being watched. I almost called out to Phin but managed to keep the fear in check.
The review was dated five months ago.
I read the others, but they were all older, and none of them addressed to me.
Wrapping a blanket tightly around my shoulders, I plunked down another thirteen bucks, brought up the file on my computer, and began to read The Killer and His Weapon.
March 31, 9:50 P.M.
Cynthia sipped the last of her espresso, courtesy of the seven-hundred-dollar machine occupying much of her kitchen counter, and then attacked her keyboard. She was finishing up her weekly post on The Agent Knows Better, her wildly popular blog.
Your query letter is one of the most terribly uninteresting things I’ve ever read, and even if your novel is ten times as good it would still be unsalable, unpalatable, and unworthy of my time. I encourage you to read my book, Golden Query Letters, and start over from scratch. But first, go back to high school and get that GED. Hopefully English is not your first language.
Cynthia smiled. Snarky and funny, yet truthful. The thousands of wannabe newbies following her blog would love it. She cut and pasted the next e-mail into her blog, a simple question from one of the clueless asking if self-publishing e-books was a viable career alternative. She heard her cell phone ringing but didn’t pick up, eager to correct the mindless dolt on the realities of e-books.
No one makes money self-publishing, Cynthia typed. There are a few loudmouth, know-it-all writers who blog about their successes, but they are no doubt liars. The only legitimate way to publish is through a respected publishing house. E-books are a fad, and the fools who jump on that bandwagon will blacklist themselves in the traditional publishing world.
She saved the entry and then went to Twitter to announce her latest entry to her myriad of faithful followers.
Too bad they were all talentless hacks who would never sell anything.
It would be a few minutes before she started receiving comments, so she turned her attention to her cell and listened to the voicemail.
“It’s me. I need you to get on the next plane to Detroit. I’ll text you instructions when you arrive.”
Cynthia’s heart rate doubled. She listened to the message again, to make sure she’d heard correctly, and then hopped onto Priceline.com to find a flight from LaGuardia to Michigan.
March 31, 10:30 P.M.
He checks out of the Blackstone and stands outside in the cold mist, waiting for the valet to bring his Mercedes Sprinter. God, he loves this vehicle, but it’s time to get it out of sight. Off the streets. News of the little package he deposited at the Shedd Aquarium is out, and numerous people saw his van pull up. If not already, the word on his ride will be out very soon.
He tips the valet a quarter and climbs in and speeds off down Michigan.
Swings around onto Lake Shore Drive and barrels north eating Lemonheads and listening to Miles Davis. He likes Miles. Lemonheads, not so much. But he’s all about embracing bad habits.
Luther registers a palpable sense of relief when, a half-hour later, he’s finally off the main roads and driving through a quiet, mostly deserted neighborhood.
He’s safe here.
The lights of the Sprinter slash through the fog and strike the rear of the semi-trailer. He brings the van to a stop and leaves it running as he opens the door and steps outside.
The ramp is a bitch to drag down but he manages.
He drives the Benz up into the trailer and parks it against the front wall. The fit is too tight to open the driver’s-side door, so Luther climbs back through the cargo area and exits out the rear doors.
It has been a big day, a perfect day, but tomorrow will be even bigger.
Historic.
The culmination of thousands of hours of work.
But there is still much work to do, he thinks as he strains to lift the auto ramp, and miles to go before I sleep.
And I have promises to keep.
April 1, 1:23 A.M.
They’d spent the measly twenty-six dollars Henry had given them on gas. Goddamn pay-at-the-pumps made it impossible to steal fuel. And that fat bitch Violet King, useful as she was, had only had ten bucks on her, which they’d also put into the tank. That meant, if they wanted to eat, they’d have to steal food or money.
Shoplifting seemed to involve less risk.
Why hadn’t they thought to eat back at Violet’s place? She wouldn’t have missed the food.
As it was, this 7-Eleven would have to do.
Donaldson went in first, the big pockets of his overalls much better at concealing foodstuffs than Lucy’s ugly-ass housedress.
She distracted the Indian clerk at the counter by asking for bogus directions.
The convenience store no doubt had closed circuit cameras, but they were a long way from the institution. If the clerk happened to catch them, they both looked pathetic enough to probably get away with just a warning.
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