The Fourth Motive

by Sean Lynch

  Maritay received a fist in the mouth for an answer. Before she could fall, Ray hit her in the stomach. Maritay collapsed to the floor, the wind knocked out of her. His mother shrieked and dropped the glass of vodka she was holding loosely in one hand. She started for the stairs that led up to the kitchen. She didn’t make it.

  Ray leaped over the scattered pile of magazines and grabbed the back of his mother’s hair. Scooping up the nearest magazine, a copy of The American Rifleman, he slapped his mother in the back of the head.

  “No, Raymond,” she howled.

  Ray released his hold on his mother and used both hands to roll the publication into a baton. Then he smacked her across the head again, this time with the rolled-up magazine. His mother fell to her knees and put her arms over her head.

  “You fucking bitch,” he hissed, as he began to slap his mother repeatedly in the face and head with the makeshift club. “I… expected… this… from… Maritay.” Ray punctuated every word with a strike. “But… you… know… better… than… to… come… down… here.”

  “No, Raymond,” she pleaded. “It was Maritay! She made me! It was her idea!”

  He continued to whack his mother until she gave up trying to defend herself against the blows and fell back blubbering to the floor. Ray struck her one more time across the face.

  “Get up, you drunk piece of shit, and get the fuck out. If you ever come down here again, I’ll kill you. I swear it. Get out.”

  Ray’s mother crawled up the kitchen stairs on her hands and knees, sobbing and wailing. When she had gone, he turned to Maritay, who was gasping for breath on the basement floor. He dropped the rolled-up magazine and searched the drafting table until he found what he was looking for; his X-acto knife.

  Ray pounced on Maritay. He clamped a hand over her mouth. Maritay’s eyes widened when she saw the scalpel-like tool in Ray’s grasp.

  With Maritay’s arms pinned to her sides beneath him and his weight preventing her escape, Ray pressed the triangular blade of the X-acto knife against one of her eyelids. She instantly froze.

  “Listen to me carefully, you whore,” he said softly. “Get your things and get the fuck out. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you. No one will ever find your body, no one. Do you understand, slut?”

  She nodded faintly, conscious of the razor poised over her eye. Ray stood up. Maritay scrambled to her feet and ran up the stairs.

  Ray spent the rest of the evening putting his room back in order. He half expected the police to arrive and arrest him, but they never did. He slept well that night. When he awoke, he found Maritay gone.

  When he arrived at work the next morning, he learned that Maritay had phoned in her resignation. She left no reason for quitting and no forwarding address. Ray never heard from her again.

  On the way home from the shipyard that night, Ray stopped at Big B Lumber in Oakland and purchased lumber, wood screws, and two stout locks. He reinforced the doorjambs of the kitchen and outside basement doors, and installed the two heavy-duty locks.

  Ray’s mother avoided speaking to him for a couple of weeks after Maritay’s departure but eventually returned to her nagging self. Neither he nor his mother ever mentioned Maritay again, and in a short time it was as if she had never existed.

  But to Ray it was another loss, an easier one to adjust to than his other losses, but a loss nonetheless. He became even more reclusive after Maritay and never again attempted to initiate a relationship with a woman not inhabiting the pages of his pornographic magazines.

  Over time, Ray began to gradually realize that the common denominator in his troubled life had always been women. It was a girl who lured his father to his demise, and a woman who shattered his dream of a career in military aviation. Even his mother had betrayed him. Perhaps all women were whores, like his father said that night years ago in the garage. Maybe they were all sluts.

  The Judge didn’t see it that way. He didn’t know what it was like to lose things.

  To a whore. A slut.

  Ray would teach him.

  Ray had waited a long time to show the Judge what it was like to lose things.

  He ground out his cigarette and ended his reverie. It was getting late and he had much to do in preparation for tomorrow. He got up from the drafting table and went to the closet.

  Ray retrieved his army duffel bag and started to remove the contents, spreading them out on the floor for inspection.

  “Planning,” Ray whispered to himself. “Planning is the key.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Bob Farrell entered his apartment, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. He was carrying a bundle under his arm. Kevin Kearns sat on Farrell’s living room sofa, eyeing the older man disdainfully.

  “Hi, Kevin,” Farrell greeted him, setting down his parcel on the kitchen table. “Brought you something,” he said, unwrapping the package. Inside were a Remington Rand government model 1911A1 .45 caliber pistol, a scabbard, a couple of spare magazines, and a box of fifty .45 caliber cartridges. “Just like the one you used in the army, I’ll bet. Certainly as old; borrowed it from a friend.”

  “You have friends?” Kearns asked.

  “Hilarious,” Farrell said. He kept his coat on. San Francisco, even in early summer, was cold in the morning. “When I left this morning, you were sawing logs. How was the couch?”

  “Better than a park bench,” Kevin said.

  “Glad you slept well. We have a busy day ahead of us.” Farrell glanced at his watch. “We have to be in Alameda to meet with Judge Callen at noon. We’d better get going.” He tamped out his cigarette in an ashtray.

  Kearns made no effort to get up. He continued to look steadily at Farrell.

  “What’s eating you?” Farrell asked, finally noticing Kearns’ sour face.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Jennifer was in town?”

  Farrell sighed and his shoulders slumped. “How’d you find out?”

  “She called when you were out. Left a message on your machine.”

  Farrell looked at his feet and patted down his combover. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Kevin. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “How long has she been here?”

  “She flew in from Omaha a couple of days ago,” Farrell admitted.

  “And you didn’t want me to know? Thanks, Bob; thanks a lot.” He stood up.

  “It’s not what you think–”

  “What am I supposed to think?” Kearns cut him off. “That I’m not good enough to see your daughter? Apparently, that’s what you think.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Am I? I know exactly what you think I’m good for. I’m good enough to almost get killed covering your ass halfway across the country, searching for Vernon Slocum. And I’m good enough to step in the line of fire guarding that sanctimonious bitch of a DA so you can play your PI games and bilk her father. But meeting up with your daughter, who I haven’t seen in almost a year? That, evidently, I’m not good enough for.” Kearns’ face reddened.

  “Take it easy, will you?” Farrell said. “You’re mistaken.”

  “Sure, Bob. I’ll take it, all right,” he said, his voice rising. “That’s what I’m good for, taking it. Taking your lies and getting used.”

  Kearns headed for the door. Farrell stepped in front of him, showing his palms. “Kevin, you don’t even have a place to go.”

  “Thanks to you,” Kearns reminded him. “Another one of the many benefits of being Bob Farrell’s friend: homelessness.”

  Kearns started forward again; Farrell put his hands on the younger man’s chest.

  “Wait a minute,” Farrell implored.

  “What for? More of your bullshit?”

  “Will you calm your redneck butt down and hear me out? Please?”

  Kearns didn’t answer him but didn’t move. He folded his arms across his chest.

  “The reason I didn’t tell you Jennifer was in town is because she asked me not to,” Farrell said solemnly. />
  “I don’t believe you,” Kearns said. “Jennifer wouldn’t do that.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Why?” Kearns challenged. “Why would Jennifer tell you to do that?”

  Farrell rubbed his eyes with both hands. “Because she didn’t come alone.”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me; Jen didn’t come alone. She brought her fiancé.”

  “Fiancé?” Kearns deflated. His arms dropped.

  “That’s right; Jennifer is engaged.”

  “When?”

  “I only found out myself about a week ago. I wasn’t supposed to know, but my ex-wife called to gloat because Jen told her first; Ann never could keep a secret. I guess she already met with Jen and her boyfriend and gave her approval. Jen flew out here from Omaha, ostensibly to announce her engagement to me.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She and her beau are staying at the Westin in Millbrae, near the airport.”

  “Together? In the same hotel room?”

  “I’m afraid so, Kevin,” Farrell said. “That’s what engaged couples do in the twentieth century. It’s called premarital sex. You should try it sometime. Would do you good.”

  Kearns ignored Farrell’s sarcasm. He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He ran a hand through his hair. “So Jennifer’s engaged,” he whistled. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “I only met him once, when I picked them up at the airport a few days ago. He’s one of Jen’s fellow students at Creighton Law School. Looks like one of the Kennedys. Probably just as crooked.”

  “A lawyer.” Kearns shook his head. “She’s going to marry a fucking lawyer. That’s perfect.”

  Farrell put his arm on Kearns’ shoulder. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it,” Kearns said. “I was an idiot to think I stood a chance.”

  “Consider yourself lucky,” Farrell soothed. “She’s my daughter, remember? If you two had gotten together, you would have eventually killed each other.”

  “That’s a load of crap and you know it. Your daughter was there for us, both of us. When it mattered, too. Jennifer stuck her neck out to get me out of jail in Omaha, covered my escape from the Feds at the hospital, and the first face I saw when I woke up in intensive care in California was hers.” He looked at Farrell. “Jen’s all right, Bob; she’s solid. I just hope her fiancé knows it.”

  “I guess he’ll find out,” Farrell said.

  Kearns managed a strained smile. “I’m sorry for what I said a minute ago. That stuff about you using me and being a liar. It was out of line.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Farrell said loftily. “Most of it’s true.” He grinned at Kearns.

  Kearns couldn’t help but grin back. “Fuck you,” he said.

  “You should have seen your face when I told you,” Farrell chuckled. “I thought you were going to piss your pants.” He busted out laughing. “Last time I saw puppy eyes like that was at the animal shelter. I thought for a second I might have to give you a hug.”

  “Then I surely would have killed you.”

  “I’d kill myself,” Farrell said.

  “I was pretty pathetic, wasn’t I?” Kearns confessed.

  “You said it, not me. Come on, let’s get on the road. We’ve got work to do.”

  “What makes you so sure I’m still on board with this bodyguard detail?”

  “Hell, Kevin,” Farrell said, grabbing the .45 and shoving Kearns out the door, “what else have you got to do?”

  “You have a point,” Kearns conceded.

  “Besides,” Farrell went on, “this stalker thing has the potential to put a lot of money in your pocket. Mine, too. And if we play our cards right, you’ll get an appointment to the sheriff’s department. That’s plenty of incentive from where I sit. All we have to do keep the Judge’s daughter safe and bag the asshole trying to hurt her.”

  “And not get killed in the process,” Kearns pointed out.

  “There’s that,” Farrell admitted.

  CHAPTER 25

  “I was asking myself how this day could get any worse,” Paige said to Sergeant Wendt. He parked his unmarked police sedan behind the burgundy-colored Oldsmobile resting in front of her father’s house. She pointed her chin at Farrell’s car. “I have my answer; Farrell’s here.”

  “Farrell works for your father,” Wendt reminded her. “He has a right to consult with his boss.”

  “I need to get a hotel,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Not a good idea,” Wendt told her. “You need to stay where you can be seen.”

  “You mean by someone other than my stalker?” she said.

  “Not funny,” Wendt said. He opened the car door for her and they walked into the house. Paige let them in with her key.

  “I wonder where Mrs Reyes is?” Paige remarked as she and Wendt entered. “I haven’t seen her for a couple of days.”

  “Maybe she’s taken ill?” Wendt suggested. “Or on vacation?”

  “I’ll have to ask Dad,” Paige said, leading them into the study. When they walked in, two of the three men in the room stood up; her father remained seated.

  “Good afternoon, Ms Callen,” Farrell said. He was holding a drink and a lit cigarette.

  “Mister Farrell,” she greeted him frostily. Wendt nodded his acknowledgment.

  “Randy,” Farrell saluted with his glass. He turned back to Paige, motioning with his drink toward the man standing next to him. “I believe you’ve met my partner, Kevin Kearns?”

  Kearns met her gaze. “We’ve met twice before,” she said. “Once in federal court–”

  “And again when he saved your life,” Farrell finished for her.

  Paige’s features hardened. She approached Kearns. “I suppose I should thank you,” she said coolly.

  “Don’t put yourself out,” Kearns said.

  Paige was about to retort when Judge Callen interceded. “I’m glad you’re both here,” he said. “We were discussing strategy.”

  “How kind of you,” Paige said icily.

  The Judge dismissed his daughter’s sarcasm and continued. “Mister Farrell has a plan that I think is worthy of consideration.”

  “I’m all ears,” Paige said. “Particularly since his plan presumably involves me.”

  “The floor is yours,” Callen said to Farrell. Paige, Wendt, and Kearns took seats. Farrell remained standing.

  “The way I see it, we have two problems,” he began, after first taking a drink and a long drag from his smoke. “First and foremost, we have to protect Ms Callen. The second priority is to identify and stop her attacker.”

  “We know this already,” Paige said.

  Farrell ignored her and went on. “The hard reality is, at this time we don’t have a clue on his identity and motive, do we, Randy?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Wendt conceded. “We’ve got detectives and DA’s inspectors working around the clock, going through Paige’s previous prosecution case files, but so far nothing stands out. The only sample of his handwriting we have is from the spray-painted wall at Paige’s condo, and our handwriting expert says there’s been no similar handwriting matches in any of the documents in her files. None of the forensic evidence is producing any leads, either. The stolen car was clean as a whistle. The paper and envelope used in the note he left on her car were common drugstore stock, and the typewriter he used is a Smith Corona; only about a zillion of those in circulation. The typewriter is just like his gun; once we find it, it’ll be easy to match up, but without it, we’ve got zilch.”

  “The plain truth is the investigation is stalled,” Farrell said. “That’s no reflection on Sergeant Wendt or his department; that’s just the way it is.” Wendt reluctantly nodded his assent. “Since we can’t prevent what we don’t know, that leaves us only one option: nail this guy in the act.” He looked at Paige. “This obviously poses significant risks.”

  “You don’t say,” Paige said.

  �
��Especially if he’s a kamikaze,” Farrell said. “If this guy doesn’t care if he gets caught, or if he’s willing to die to get her, he’s going to be all the harder to stop.”

  “What does that mean?” Paige asked. “A kamikaze?”

  “It means,” Wendt answered for Farrell, “certain types of stalkers are kamikazes; they’re so determined to nail their targets, they don’t care if they get apprehended or killed in the process. Some actually seek death. They’re happy to go up in flames as long as they can take the object of their obsession with them. Lots of these whack jobs shoot themselves after killing their victims; they’re called murder-suicides. Others try to get the cops to do it for them; a suicide-by-cop.I’m sure you’ve seen it before.”

  Paige nodded. “Don’t prosecute many of them,” she admitted. “Usually nobody left to prosecute.”

  “I’m not sure if your stalker fits that profile,” Farrell said. “He’s gone to a lot of trouble to keep from getting caught so far. Fact is, we simply don’t know at this point. Unfortunately, his self-preservation instinct might only be temporary.”

  “Temporary?” the Judge asked.

  “Yes. Motivated for now only by a desire to prolong your daughter’s suffering. If and when he reaches the end of his deranged program, he may be willing to sacrifice himself to take her out. I’ve seen it before.”

  “Me too,” Wendt said. “Kamikaze.”

  “So Paige is essentially at the mercy of a homicidal lunatic’s insane agenda?” Callen said.

  “Correct,” Farrell said. “And thus far, we’re also entirely at the mercy of his schedule. We don’t know when or where he’s going to strike.”

  “We could put Paige in a safe house,” Wendt suggested. “At least for a while.”

  “For how long?” Farrell asked. “It’s expensive, can’t be maintained forever, and all the stalker has to do is wait it out. Ms Callen can’t stay underground for long, not and have anything close to a normal life. The stalker obviously knows all about her, certainly enough to have hit her at home on his terms. All he has to do, if she goes underground, is go underground himself. He’ll surface when she does and go after her all over again. Time is on his side, not ours.”