Donaldson pinched two packages of Twinkies, a handful of Slim Jims, some candy bars, and was reaching for something he could actually eat—a cup of apple sauce—when he heard, “You! What are you doing!”
He froze, feeling a sense of humiliation that took him back to his youth and being scolded by his father.
The clerk shoved Lucy aside and stormed over, his expression pure anger.
“Empty your pockets! Right now!”
When Donaldson didn’t move, the prick actually put his hands on him, taking out all of the stolen snacks. Donaldson stared over his shoulder at Lucy, who was reaching for the gun stuffed into the back of her underwear. She’d been holding it so Donaldson had more room for food. He shook his head—shooting would bring the police. Instead, he lowered his eyes and apologized to the prick.
“I’m sorry. I was hungry. I haven’t eaten in—”
“Then get a job and earn some money, you freak. If I see you in my store again, I’m calling the cops.”
After removing the last Snickers bar, he grabbed Donaldson by the bib strap and escorted him out of his store. Pain flared all over Donaldson’s body, but he dared not resist.
Once outside, he followed Lucy, the two of them limping toward their piece-of-shit car parked across the street.
“You were supposed to distract him,” Donaldson said.
“He was onto you, D. Nothing I could do about it.”
“We gotta come up with a better plan for next time.”
“Don’t need to. While he was busy with you, I helped myself.”
“Food?” Donaldson’s mouth began to water at the thought of it.
“Better.”
“Cash?”
“Register was locked, but I got these.” Lucy reached into her dress, pulled out a long, accordion string of cards.
Scratch-off lottery tickets.
“Goddamn it, girl, no one ever wins at those things. Why didn’t you grab something we could actually use?”
Then Lucy did something that Donaldson hadn’t seen in all the time they’d been institutionalized.
She began to cry.
Donaldson didn’t know how to react. Once upon a time, he’d tried his damnedest to kill this girl. And she’d returned the favor. But these last few years, rehabilitating, plotting, planning their revenge, Donaldson realized he’d formed a relationship with Lucy that was as intimate as any he’d ever had. Looking at her, so obviously distressed, he felt bad for his comment.
They climbed painfully into the front seats of the Monte Carlo, and Donaldson gave her one of the car keys.
“Look. Let’s scratch these babies off. Maybe we’ll win the lottery after all.”
After spending ten excruciating minutes scratching off all seventeen cards, they’d only won a single free ticket.
“I hate you,” Donaldson told Lucy.
It grew cold, and with no money for a motel, they were forced to sleep in the car, the situation only compounded by the fact that Lucy had lost the Ativan, the drug that helped them to sleep. Without it, it would be damn near impossible to drift off.
Donaldson didn’t believe in karma, but when he considered the many people he’d ruthlessly murdered, he wondered if sitting there shivering, hungry, and in terrible pain might actually be what he deserved.
April 1, 7:30 A.M.
I didn’t have any seizures that night, because I didn’t sleep.
Too much on my mind.
Insomnia and I were old, familiar enemies.
Even though Phin was still angry, he’d insisted on staying in my room and had only fallen asleep an hour before dawn. Now, as the sun came up, he was still sleeping in the easy chair, Duffy at his feet.
I read Andrew Z. Thomas long into the morning.
The Scorcher was a violent little potboiler that had surprisingly held my interest, despite the fact that it had no hero to root for. But having read it, I still wasn’t sure what it was supposed to teach me. When I’d finished The Scorcher, I dove into The Divine Comedy, and the only thing I learned from that one was that Dante was nuts. Thinking up tortures for sinners and then writing an epic poem about it struck me as the ultimate in poor taste. That so many religions and people took what Dante said about hell as a universal truth was a scary proposition.
After the reading binge, I walked Duffy in the backyard.
When he finally pooped, I stared at the pile, wondering what my next course of action should be. Arriving at no pleasant way to solve the problem, I put on a latex glove and played pinch and squish, which was every bit as revolting as it sounded, the smell so bad I actually took off my sports bra and tied it over my nose and mouth. After a thorough examination, I deemed the ring wasn’t there. It had been a disgusting waste of time.
On the plus side, it was so terrible, I didn’t see how changing a baby’s diaper could be any worse.
When I walked back inside, Phin was up.
“Let’s take your blood pressure,” he said, sleep still pulling on his voice.
“Later.”
“Now.”
I was too tired to fight with him, so I took a seat while he pumped and calculated.
“One sixty-five over one ten. It’s gotten worse.”
“I feel fine.”
“We need to take you to the ER, Jack. This is a serious—”
“Feel.”
“What?”
I grabbed his hand, placed it on my belly. “Feel. She hears your voice, and she’s saying good morning.”
Phin held his palm there, our child’s little feet tapping against him. For that brief, crystal moment, I could picture being married to him, and the white picket fence fantasy hit me full force. No more chasing killers or carrying guns. Just the three of us, being stupidly, happily domestic.
Phin pulled his hand away. “I’m calling the doctor, asking him what to do about your blood pressure.”
“Can you just sit with me a little, first?”
He left, and I felt a pang of guilt dead center in my chest, questioning yet again why I simply hadn’t said yes to his proposal.
Waddling back to my office, I plopped down behind my desk and stared at my computer. I considered opening up Notepad to jot some things down, but instead went analogue and took out a piece of paper and a pen.
I made a list of data points on the first murder.
Vic Name: Jessica Shedd
Location where body found: Kinzie Street railroad bridge, hanging over the water
Time of Death: March 31, approx 1:30–2:30 A.M.
Cause of Death: blood loss, with extensive premortem mutilation
Found 6:40 A.M. by jogger
Book found in plastic bag wired to ribcage
Writing on bag: For Jack D—This one was a real swinger—LK
Book: The Scorcher by Andrew Z. Thomas
1 page dog-eared: page 102
1st letter “p” on the page circled
Dante line: A little spark is followed by a great flame.
Something occurred to me. I grabbed my Kindle and found the corresponding page which had been earmarked. Then I backspaced until I came to the beginning of that chapter. Wrote it down.
Chapter 31
Relevance of excerpt…unknown.
Okay, next murder.
Vic Name: Reginald Marquette
Location where body found: Shedd Aquarium
Time of Death: March 31, approx 1:00–2:00 P.M.
I went online and logged into the Chicago PD database, checked the police report to see if the coroner had determined cause of death. Yep.
Cause of Death: potassium chloride poisoning, postmortem mutilation
Witnesses say body dropped in cardboard box at entrance to aquarium at approx. 2:00 P.M.
Book found in plastic bag in the stomach
Prints on bag belong to Luther Kite
Prints on book belong to Andrew Z. Thomas
Writing on bag: JD, He devoured this book in one sitting, LK
Book: The Ki
ller and His Weaponby Andrew Z. Thomas
1 page dog-eared: page 151, in part 1
1st letter “p” on the page circled
Another Dante line: Remember tonight…for it is the beginning of always.
I studied the similarities first.
Obviously, a victim named Shedd and a crime scene at the Shedd Aquarium. Two Thomas books. Two Dante quotes. Two notes to me written on plastic bags. Fingerprints from both Kite and Thomas.
As for differences…
One younger, single woman; one older, married guy.
She was a claims adjuster; he was a professor.
She was tortured; he died relatively fast and painlessly.
I checked their birth dates and addresses, but didn’t notice anything that linked them.
I scribbled Two different murderers? on the pad, and then called up Phil Blasky at the county morgue.
“Phil, Jack Daniels.”
“Hey, Jack. How’s retirement treating you?”
“You’re bullshitting me, right?”
“Absolutely. Calling about these Kite murders?”
“Yeah. Style seems different. One was torture, one was poison.”
“You thinking two different killers?” he asked.
“Crossed my mind.”
“I can tell you the mutilations appear consistent. Same weapon used—a curved, serrated blade. The cutter was right-handed in both cases. Entry cut was at the same location, just above the belly button. The cutter has some knowledge of anatomy. No unnecessary damage to the internal organs.”
“A doctor? A butcher?”
“Possibly. Or could be someone who has simply gutted a whole lot of people.”
I crossed out my Two different murderers? note. “Thanks, Phil.”
He hung up.
I stared at my notes, my mind drifting, and wrote down:
Jessica.
Sara.
Amanda.
I scratched those out, and then wrote:
Maria.
Lisa.
Carla.
Carla Daniels.
Carla Daniels-Troutt.
But I hated the name Troutt. I didn’t much care for the name Daniels either. That was my ex-husband’s name, and I just kept it for professional reasons.
Though my maiden name, Streng, wasn’t much better.
Did I have to use my name or his name? Couldn’t I pick something entirely new?
I wrote:
Carla Einstein. Carla Aristotle. Carla Hemingway.
And I realized I hated the name Carla, too.
I heard Phin coming back, quickly turned the paper over.
“The doctor said to take you to the emergency room immediately.”
“Of course she said that. She could be sued otherwise.”
“Put your shoes on.”
I reached for his belt, tugged him closer. “I know something that can lower my blood pressure.”
“I’ll meet you in the car.”
He pulled away, rejection prickling me like a blush.
Which was probably how I’d made him feel yesterday.
I hoisted myself out of my desk chair and then went to find my shoes.
This was shaping up to be a really shitty day.
March 17, Fifteen Days Ago
Three Days After the Bus Incident
“Name?”
“Christine. Christine Agawa.”
“How much do you weigh, Christine?”
“What?”
“Did you not hear my question?”
“Yes, I just don’t understand—”
“Your understanding is not integral to this conversation. Answer the goddamn question.”
Her eyes lower. She stares into the table.
He can practically smell the shame and the self-hate radiating off of her.
“Three hundred and seventy pounds.”
“Is that accurate? Or are you keeping a few pounds from me?”
“I haven’t weighed myself in a while. I’m probably heavier.”
“Have you been heavy all your life?”
“Since I was…” She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Since I was ten.”
“What prompted this?”
“I don’t know.”
“But it isn’t some thyroid condition or anything like that beyond your control?”
She shakes her head.
He slides his chair back and stands.
“Thank you, Christine.”
“Why am I here?” she asks as he reaches for the door. “Please.” Crying now. “I’m so worried.”
“It’s okay, Christine. Quite healthy in fact. But you shouldn’t be worried.” He smiles. “You should be terrified.”
April 1, 1:30 P.M.
It was his first appointment after lunch, a “potential client” intake with a man from Champagne. Their first telephone call had gone well enough to schedule an in-person meeting. The product at issue was a glass-cutter implementing some state-of-the-art, design-around technology that Mr. Siders seemed confident would be a goldmine once brought to market. Then again, that was the trouble with inventors. Seventy-five percent of them were certifiably, batshit crazy, and ninety percent harbored delusions that their invention would make them millions. But one of Peter’s strengths—he liked to think—was his gut-check when it came to accepting new clients. Knowing whether or not to sign them up. Having that innate sense about whether their product had enough potential to make dealing with their mental instability or neuroses, whatever you wanted to call it, worthwhile.
Peter’s phone rang.
He answered on speakerphone, “Yes, Kelly?”
“Mr. Roe, Mr. Siders is here for his one-thirty.”
“Thank you, I’ll be right out.”
He disconnected and lifted the microphone to his dictation machine, entered a 3.25-hour time billing for the response to an office action of the United States Patent and Trademark Office that he’d completed before lunch.
Rising from his desk, he slid into the Versace jacket he wore in court and for initial meetings—had to impress on every conceivable level when you billed out at $625 an hour.
He met Mr. Siders in reception, found a tall man with long, black hair bundled up under a White Sox baseball cap, wearing dark sunglasses, black boots, black jeans, and a long-sleeved black tee from Slayer’s Hell Awaits tour. Not exactly dress-to-impress attire for that first meeting with your patent attorney, but it wasn’t unusual. In Peter’s experience, inventors were a quirky bunch, and most dressed to fit that mad scientist vibe they put out into the world like a Mace-blast of pheromones.
“Rob Siders,” Peter said with a smile he’d honed to perfection over the years—confident, comfortable, wealthy, and friendly without being too open. Important to send these subtle messages to establish the appropriate attorney-client boundaries from day one.
Roe extended his hand, and the man stood up and shook it.
Limp-wristed, cold-fish grip, and something was wrong with the man’s skin. He glanced down.
What the hell?
Siders was wearing latex gloves.
“Mr. Roe, nice to finally meet you.”
“What’s with the gloves, Mr. Siders?” He tried not to make the question sound rude or prying, but Jesus, talk about strange.
“I don’t want to freak you out.”
“You won’t.”
“I have psoriasis. It’s not contagious or infectious, but it’s not very pretty either.”
“Understood. Did Kelly offer you coffee or water?”
“Yes, but I’m fine. Just had lunch.”
“Excellent, come on back.”
Siders grabbed the black duffle he’d brought along—probably contained a prototype he wanted to show off—and Peter led him down the hallway, past the large office where his paralegal and two associates slaved away in cubicles, before arriving at the corner digs he called home.
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