by John Lutz
Resist though he might, he needed another Charlotte.
Tom Coulter lay on his back in bed in his room at the Clover Motel, ten miles southwest of Hard Oak, Texas. He was a gangly man with raggedly cut black hair and bad teeth. He wore dirt-crusted jeans with a hole in one knee, expensive boots that needed polish, and a shirt unbuttoned to reveal scraggly dark chest hair and prominent ribs. He was perspiring heavily from the heat. He was breathing hard from the heat, too, not to mention the sour smell of his own body, but he was too tired right now to get undressed and shower. He had to rest. He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and sighed. Until he’d exhaled, his ribs looked as if they might break through his pale flesh.
In the Clover’s gravel parking lot was the dusty green Volvo station wagon he’d stolen in Charmont, Illinois. Its license plate was stolen from a Chevy in a shopping mall in Morristown, Tennessee. Tom had parked it several doors down from his room; if the law came for him, he might have precious seconds to get away.
His jangled nerves made it impossible for him to sleep. He opened his eyes and watched a fly bumping over and over against the dirt-smeared window, buzzing around and trying to find a way out to the light and freedom. He could identify with that fly. Most likely it wouldn’t be alive much longer, but there it was, struggling to break through an invisible barrier like the barrier of lousy luck that had always plagued Coulter and blocked his progress. He would have swatted the fly and put it out of its hopeless misery, only it was too much trouble.
He absently reached to the bedside table and used the remote to turn on the TV. But after a glance at the screen he left the volume low and didn’t listen to it. Some kind of commercial about an arthritis drug was on, so what did he care? His mind was still fixed on how he’d gotten here. It was like what he’d heard somebody on TV call a loop, where the same tape kept playing over and over.
None of what happened was really his fault. It was just that his luck had turned bad, and then it was one thing after another.
He’d been surprised in the kitchen by the woman in the house in New Jersey, but the opportunistic Coulter, figuring the shapely woman’s presence was part of what the world owed him, simply smiled and told her the facts. He was a professional burglar, and now that she’d disturbed him at his work, it was time for her to undress. It was only fair, he’d explained to her.
She started to unbutton her blouse, started to cry, and that’s when her two kids came in. Little bastards; he hadn’t heard them at all, so they must have arrived with her and come in through the front door instead of the garage.
That was when his luck began to sour.
He turned around and told the kids to go to their rooms. It wasn’t as if he had a gun or any other kind of weapon, so they didn’t obey him. Instead they started to cry and looked to their mother for directions. Fat chance there. The bitch was crying too hard to be able to give them the word.
Coulter made a threatening jump toward the kids, yelling for them to shoo, so he could have some brief fun with their mother, then be on his way. Why didn’t they move? He had no desire to hurt anyone. Well, mom, a little bit.
That’s when everything really went haywire, and in ways he couldn’t foresee. Simply shitty luck. It sure as hell hadn’t been his fault.
When he moved to give the biggest kid a shove, the kid kind of sidestepped and Coulter stumbled and fell to his knees. The heel of his left hand landed on cookie crumbs or something that was brittle and dug into his flesh so that his hand stung. If it hadn’t been for that, he might have noticed what mom was up to.
He was standing up when he heard her, in a new, confident voice, order him to get out—now, and fast. When he looked she was holding a gun she’d got from somewhere, a big blue steel semiautomatic. It made her a different woman. He sure didn’t like the look in her eyes. He figured it meant he’d better not mess with her in any way at all.
Coulter was going to leave, and that would have been that. But he’d been too shocked to move. His feet were glued to the floor.
Mom started pulling the trigger, over and over. Coulter was horrified at first, then angry. She had no right to do that. She hadn’t given him time to obey her command. He didn’t have a chance. He sure as hell would have gotten out of there in a hurry if she’d given him the opportunity. He was a professional burglar and wanted nothing to do with guns. Nothing to do with violence of any kind. Whatever happened from here on out, it was on her and not him.
It was a good thing the gun was old and kept jamming.
He figured it wouldn’t be long before it did go off, the way she kept pulling on the trigger; not squeezing, like you were supposed to, just clenching the thing tight and pulling so her bent forefinger went white on the unmoving trigger. Something seemed to be blocking it from moving. Maybe the safety was on. Maybe she’d figure it out any second and blow his brains out.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to get out and away. He ran for the door, but he had to pass close to the woman to get there. When he pushed her aside, she must have thought he was attacking her. Bad luck again, for both of them.
She started hitting him with the gun, a couple of times on the side of the head, really hurting him. Retaliating in a way that any fair judge or jury would say was self-defense, he wrapped an arm around her neck and wrestled her to the ground, trying to get the gun away from her.
Then damned if the two kids didn’t jump on him. He figured they must not have liked him attacking their mother, not knowing she’d attacked him. Coulter guessed you couldn’t blame them.
The biggest kid, a boy about eleven, found a full can of root beer somewhere and started slamming it into the back of Coulter’s neck. That distracted Coulter enough so that mom managed to get out from under him and grab a drawer handle so she could pull herself up.
But the drawer slid all the way out of the cabinet. Crash and clatter, and there were knives all over the floor.
Coulter snatched one up before anyone else could and started hacking and slicing away, yelling as if he’d lost his mind, which he guessed he had, for a while. But he was fighting for his life. He had no choice, and there were three of them and only one of him. Not a fair fight.
Then he was standing there holding the big, wood-handled kitchen knife he’d picked up with blood all over him, all over the floor. All over mom and the kids. It was the most unreal thing Coulter had ever seen.
Everything stopped. Time crawled, like in a bad dream. Nobody was moving, not even Coulter.
He noticed that he was the only one not dead.
The kids had so much blood on them he couldn’t tell where they were cut or stabbed. Mom had a deep gash from ear to ear. The way her eyes and mouth were wide open, it looked as if the knife blade had surprised her. Or maybe she’d died struggling to breathe.
The knife slipped from his hand and bounced on the floor.
Real time again:
Move! Move! Move!
Coulter got out of there, leaving the bloody knife behind.
Coulter had made it home to his apartment, back in the city, and showered and cleaned up. It was still almost like a dream. But he knew he had to move and keep moving, get far away, sort things out.
Coulter was wrestling his big suitcase out of the closet, so he could pack a lot of things in a hurry, when the police showed up.
He knew exactly what to do. Coulter never lived anywhere without a prepared exit route and a plan to go with it. He left everything as it was, set his bed on fire, and climbed the fire escape up to where he could reach the roof. From that roof he made it over a thick wood plank to the adjoining roof, let himself in through the service door, and took the elevator to the lobby. He already knew about the side exit.
Within five minutes of the knock on his door, he was making himself walk slowly toward where he’d parked the SUV he’d stolen for the trip he was planning.
He had to hand it to the cops. They’d spotted him somehow, but by that time the fire department had started to arrive with its e
quipment in response to the fire in his apartment. There was a lot of activity and confusion. After he pulled away in the SUV, a squad car followed him for a few blocks, but he shot at it, knowing there’d be no return fire on the crowded streets. He didn’t know if he’d hit the driver, or maybe disabled the car, but it pulled to the curb. After turning the corner, Coulter drove a few more blocks, then ditched the SUV and lost himself in the mass of people in Manhattan.
After that, no problem. He stole another car—another big SUV, because he liked them—and was on his way out of town.
He’d overcome his bad luck.
There were lots of stories about Coulter after that, in the papers and all over TV. And not just New York papers and television.
He’d have kind of enjoyed the stories if they were true, only they made him out to be the bad guy. Still, he was famous. And for now he was free. He might even stay free, if only he could get to Mexico. That border had to be easy to cross in both directions, right? The government had never been able to stop the Mexicans from getting into the country, so he oughta be able to get out. When he got to Mexico, he could turn bad luck into good.
After a while, whenever he’d switched on the TV or bought a New York paper, there wasn’t much being said or written about him. He had to admit he kind of resented that. He was supposed to be famous, right? What did it matter how he’d become a celebrity? You were one or you weren’t.
He was one.
Not that he wanted any paparazzi around.
He didn’t want to be a dead celebrity, or one spending his life in prison.
Now here he was at the Clover Motel, half watching a trapped fly at the window and half listening to a cheap little TV near the foot of the bed.
Mexico figured to be his best chance. He could even speak a little—
“…Tom Coulter, who murdered a suburban woman and her two children in New Jersey. In other news…”
Huh?
He grabbed the remote from the bedside table and ran up the channels until he found another cable news network.
There he was! There was his photograph!
It was an old mug shot, one where the camera had caught him by surprise with his mouth open so you could see his bad teeth. His hair looked greasy and all messed up over one ear, too. Like it was combed with an eggbeater, his mother used to say. He wished they’d used another photo.
A voice from the TV said, “New York police confirmed today that wanted multiple murderer Thomas Coulter, who fled when police attempted to arrest him at his apartment, is suspected of being responsible for the Torso Murders that have terrorized the city and baffled law enforcement officials for weeks.”
Holy Jesus!
How’d they come up with that? Was it some kind of trick?
No, he knew it wasn’t a trick. He knew how the police worked, and it wasn’t that way.
Of course, Coulter knew about the Torso Murders. They were national news.
And now I’m national news again.
The big stage.
The cops might have it wrong—big surprise. But I’m already wanted for three murders, so what’s the difference? They sure as hell aren’t gonna look for me any harder.
Cable news moved on to another story, then a commercial about some kind of vitamin supplement for dogs and cats.
Coulter was safe here, but he couldn’t leave for a while, what with all the new publicity. Though he wasn’t too worried about the photo, since it looked so little like him.
Sometimes a bad rap could have its advantages. Soon they’d be saying he was famous. Or infamous. Whatever. He knew there really wasn’t any difference. His bad luck could be like good luck here.
Firmly back in the pantheon of celebrities, Coulter smiled.
His nerves were tingling too much for him to continue just lying there in bed, thinking wild thoughts and staring at a goddamned loser fly on the window. He should think of other things, give his mind a rest so his body could rest, too.
Why should dogs and cats need vitamin supplements? Wild animals never take them, and they do just fine.
You have to watch out for everything and everybody. Every goddamned thing in life is a racket.
The celebrity got up and paced.
Quinn and Fedderman entered the West Side brick building where Madeline had had her apartment. They did so separately, figuring someone other than the undercover cop at a well-concealed observation post across the street might be watching.
The undercover had reported there’d been no sign of the new Madeline for four days. During that time, the lights in her apartment windows never came on at night. And there still was no sign of anyone else observing the building, which of course might only mean that the somebody else was very skilled at his or her job.
Maybe the new Madeline was away on a visit somewhere, or maybe she’d moved out. Either way, Quinn figured it was time to take a look.
It would have been easy to see the super, flash their shields, and gain entry into the apartment, but there was always the possibility the super might talk.
Quinn and Fedderman met in the hall at the apartment door. Quinn, first in the building, had already tried to call up on the intercom from the lobby and hadn’t gotten a reply. Still, they knocked and waited before going in.
Since the apartment was unoccupied, the door wouldn’t be locked from the inside, and Fedderman was one of the best at using a lock pick. He had the door open and them in the apartment within three minutes.
Though the place was furnished, it was almost immediately obvious to a cop’s eye that no one lived there. A thin layer of dust was visible on all the wood surfaces. It was hot, since the air conditioner wasn’t running. There wasn’t a sound that didn’t filter in from outside, not even the refrigerator motor. The apartment even smelled empty.
Most of the furniture looked cheap, and what didn’t look cheap was in some way damaged. There was a big pressed-wood combination bookcase, desk, and TV hutch along one wall. The books were all hardcovers without dust jackets and looked as if they’d been passed unread from tenant to tenant for years.
Quinn started with the living room. Fedderman began in the bedroom, and they worked toward each other. They looked in empty drawers and empty closets, in cabinets that held nothing other than roach traps, wadded rags, or empty cleaning or insecticide containers.
They searched for hiding places: inside light switch plates, the toilet tank, top closet shelves, beneath sofa and chair cushions, behind drapes, the outside backs of dresser drawers (a favorite place for people to tape envelopes and small packages that allowed the drawers to close all the way). They found nothing.
The refrigerator held very little: a few frozen dinners, an almost empty orange juice carton, and a withered tomato. A kitchen wastebasket, already emptied, yielded a week-old cash receipt from a deli in the neighborhood. It had been stuck to the bottom in something that had spilled there long ago. The receipt was for $9.63 and it wasn’t itemized. Unhelpful.
When Quinn and Fedderman stood in the small galley kitchen, the final room of their search, Fedderman leaned back against the sink with his arms crossed and said what they both knew.
“The new Madeline’s moved out.”
“And moved clean,” Quinn said. “This place might as well have been scrubbed by a pro.”
“There’ll be fingerprints,” Fedderman said.
Quinn shook his head. “They won’t do us much good. She wouldn’t have been an E-Bliss client if her prints were on file.”
“We should have had her tailed whenever she left here,” Fedderman said.
Quinn shook his head again. “We’ve got only so much manpower, Feds.”
“The same old story. We need one cop for every dishonest citizen.”
“One honest cop,” Quinn said.
“Renz is gonna be plenty pissed off.”
“Like I am,” Quinn said.
41
It seldom took Pearl long to become a pest, and here it was her job.
>
Tony Lake stood up from the corner table in Raissen’s and showed his consternation for only a second when he saw Jill walk in with Pearl. Then his customary radiant smile flashed across the room to the two women.
The tuxedoed maitre d’ spoke for a few seconds with Jill, then unnecessarily swept an arm to direct her and the other woman across the exclusive and isolated restaurant. Raissen’s hadn’t been open long. It occupied the entire top floor of a midtown office building. There were several color-coded rooms. This was the red room, open only for lunch. It had red tinted crystal chandeliers trailing oval rubies, was carpeted in deep red, and had white tablecloths edged in red. Dark red drapes framed a dazzling view of Manhattan Island and beyond. Like the other rooms in the restaurant, it featured genuine silver settings and cut crystal.
Supposedly just back in town, Tony was expecting only Jill, and he was planning on entertaining her and perhaps taking her back to his apartment while hers would be available for other purposes. The time of client substitution was fast approaching, and everything had seemed to be going smoothly, until just now.
“This is my good friend Jewel,” Jill said, with a big grin. “We were supposed to meet for lunch today. I forgot all about it when you called. I didn’t think you’d mind if I brought her along.”
Good friend. Words Tony didn’t like hearing.
He saw a short, slim-waisted woman in her late thirties or early forties with raven black hair and dark eyes. She was smiling at him with large, perfect teeth. It took some effort to keep his gaze from straying toward her prominent breasts, made more noticeable by the tight tan blouse she wore. It was fashioned of some kind of knit material and tucked into faded form-fitting designer jeans. Here was a woman, he thought, who was fully assembled.