by Ed Gaffney
He managed to regain his balance, and looked up again at the shooter.
The distance between them had closed, if only by a few feet. Maybe eighteen more to go.
There’s always another way.
Zack pushed the chair forward again, and holding on, hopped after it again. Now maybe sixteen feet separated him and the shooter.
Although the world was still in slo-mo, Zack’s mind was blazing along at top speed. How many shots had been spent? Four? Five? How many did a weapon like that hold? If Zack were able to draw more fire, would that exhaust the shooter’s ammunition? Or should he try to rush the shooter and hope to catch him by surprise this time? What if the next time he got shot he was hit in a vital spot? He was already assuming that he was going to die, but how could he make sure that his death would guarantee Justin’s safety?
Another push, another hop, and now the space between them had shrunk to fourteen feet.
And the shooter, aiming into the crowd, fired again.
Or tried to fire again. Because this time, there was no crack. No bullet. The shooter looked down at his gun, pointed it back out into the crowd, and squeezed the trigger again.
Nothing.
He was out of ammunition. Thank God. Now where was Justin?
Zack spun to his left, trying to spot his son. But the emergency lighting was so poor, and the room so chaotic, with injured and screaming people everywhere, many cowering behind benches or sprawled on the floor, there was no way to find Justin.
Just then, a metallic clatter from the direction of the gunman. Zack spun back toward the noise, and saw a silver rectangular tube of some kind on the floor.
Then he brought his gaze up to the man’s hands, and rushed forward.
Because the madman hadn’t run out of bullets. The silver thing on the floor was an ammunition clip.
He was merely reloading.
And Zack was still twelve long feet away. With something very important yet to do with his life.
At least what was left of it.
FOURTEEN
September 11
STEPHANIE WATCHED WITH DISBELIEF AS HER father and the crazy-looking little man who was driving them climbed out of the tiny car parked in front of her house and headed toward her.
Stephanie was standing in front of the home of her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Giordano, on a lawn strewn with musty-smelling books, magazines and sheet music, old board games, mismatched sets of glasses, plates, serving bowls and utensils, yellowing photographs, and whatever else she and Mrs. G. had pulled down from the old woman’s attic over the past week.
Mrs. Giordano finished talking to the young couple who had just bought an old wooden high chair, and watched as the two men approached. “Do you have to go, dear?” she asked Steph. “It’s perfectly all right, you know. David will be by later this afternoon to help out.”
For someone she barely knew, Mrs. G.’s son David was turning out to be a real pain in Stephanie’s butt. David had basically railroaded his mother into holding the yard sale, in an effort to, as he delicately put it, “get rid of some of the clutter” in Mrs. G.’s life. So Steph felt obliged to help the poor woman with the formidable task of rummaging through her old belongings and making sure, for example, that all of the metal tray tables with the lilac motif were accounted for, and cleaning the three dozen cups that went with the ugliest punch bowl she’d ever seen.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if this was something that Mrs. G. had actually wanted. But it was pretty clear that David was the real interested party here, and it sure seemed like it was less about clutter, and more about finding a way for his mom to get her hands on some more money, so David wouldn’t have to kick in the lousy fifty bucks or so he spent every month taking her to get groceries.
“No, I’m fine,” Steph told Mrs. G. “It’s just my father, and, um, a friend. Coming to your yard sale. Amazing.”
It wasn’t clear which was less likely. That Malcolm had a friend, or that he was coming to a yard sale.
“Well then, I’ll be right back with something to drink,” Mrs. G. said, heading inside.
Steph became aware that she was holding a copy of the piano and vocal music to K-K-K-Katy, and she put it down, hastily, as her father came up to her. He looked nervous.
“Stephanie, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Mr. Thomas Prieaux. He comes to my regular Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, and several months ago, he agreed, at my request, but against my advice, to become my sponsor.” Malcolm turned to the other man. “Thomas, this is my daughter, Stephanie.”
Thomas Prieaux looked a little younger than Malcolm—he might have been in his sixties, but he was the kind of person whose smile and attitude made him appear younger than he really was. He seemed to be unaware of the fact that just about everything about his bearing was odd. He walked with his hands clasped together in front of his somewhat rounded belly, his clothes looked clean and pressed, but rather like he was planning to go straight from the yard sale to a ’70s fashion show, his haircut was straight out of ancient Rome, and to top it all off, he stood, at most, five feet tall.
Thomas shook hands and exclaimed, “Stephanie, I cannot tell you how pleased I am to finally meet you! Your father is constantly telling me that we mustn’t intrude on your life, but after I saw you on Public Forum the other night, I told Malcolm, ‘Enough, you big chicken. I don’t care if I am intruding, I simply must meet this splendid young woman immediately and tell her how much I adore her.’” He looked back over his shoulder at Malcolm, who was fiddling with some salt and pepper shakers that looked like Marilyn Monroe and James Dean, and then back to Stephanie. “And so, here we are. Your earrings are fabulous, by the way.”
It was all completely overwhelming. Six months ago, her father had finally acknowledged that he might actually benefit from attending AA meetings. But the idea that Malcolm had actually embraced the program so thoroughly that he had gotten a sponsor—a fellow alcoholic who was far enough along in his sobriety that he could mentor others in recovery—was nothing short of miraculous.
The fact that Thomas looked a bit like a cartoon character was just rainbow-colored icing on the improbability cake.
“It’s the hair, isn’t it?” Thomas asked, touching his ridiculously short bangs with the tips of his fingers. He turned back to Malcolm, who was now examining an eight-track collection of classical music. “I told you she was going to freak out when she saw the hair, didn’t I, Mal?”
Malcolm, or, rather, Mal—this was getting weirder by the second—smiled and put down the cartridges. “Thomas is in a play,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“They made us cut our hair,” Thomas said. “I’m in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum at the Longmeadow Players. You should come. It’s going to be wonderful.”
Stephanie finally found her voice. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Thomas. I, um, I’m so happy you came today.”
Thomas squinted, turned back to Malcolm, and launched into another monologue. “She doesn’t know anything about this, does she? I knew you weren’t going to tell her unless we came here. Too many secrets, Mal, too many secrets. Newsflash, Sweetie. Your daughter already knows you’re human and can’t do everything all alone. She’s a grown woman, and from what I saw on television the other night, quite capable of taking care of herself.”
Without missing a beat, he turned back to Stephanie and plunged ahead. “Isn’t it incredible how different your father and I are? But what’s important is in here, isn’t it?” Thomas nodded solemnly, and patted the left side of his chest. “And in there, Malcolm and I are like brothers. By the way, your father is doing really well in his recovery. The program is working for him, because he’s working the program. I am very proud of him. In fact everyone at the meeting is.”
And then Thomas leaned closer, and in a stage whisper, dropped the real bomb.
“But what we really came to tell you is that we just went to the police, because we think that
the Springfield Shooter is stalking your father.”
At that moment, Mrs. Giordano emerged from her front door carrying a tray of glasses and calling out cheerfully, “Who wants lemonade?”
Zack was supposed to be spending his after-dinner-before-putting-Justin-to-bed-time reading a law review article on conflicts of interest, but he couldn’t pull himself away from the notes he’d made last week on the letter the serial killer had sent to Vera. It was really hard to believe that the murderer had gone to the trouble to create a random set of false clues. But no matter how many times Zack went through the letter, he couldn’t come up with how it led to the name Laurence Seta.
Justin banged on the door, and then came in followed by Kermit the dog. The hems of the little boy’s SpongeBob SquarePants pajama pants were now a full inch north of his ankles.
“Hey, you’re ready for bed so soon?” Zack couldn’t believe it. It seemed like they’d only finished dinner fifteen minutes ago.
“Uh, Mr. Silly Daddy, look what time it is.” Justin walked over to Zack to show him the watch he kept at all times on his skinny little wrist. According to Mickey Mouse, it was nearly nine o’clock. Whoa. When had that happened?
“Ooh. Sorry about that, Justin man. I must have spaced out doing this work.”
Justin climbed up onto Zack’s lap, while Kermit inspected the front left leg of the red leather chair that Terry loved to sit in. Something about that leg really worked for Kermit. The dog spent most of his time in Zack’s room sniffing it or lying next to it.
“Daddy, why would anyone want to kill some cornflakes?” Justin asked.
Zack had been through enough of these sessions to know, just from the tone of his son’s voice, that the little guy was seriously concerned. Of course Justin was also extremely misinformed. But from personal experience, Zack knew to be careful to find out what was really going on before accidentally reinforcing, ignoring, or ridiculing whatever Justin was worrying about.
As a young child, Zack had spent several years terrified every time he saw someone chewing gum, because he had been told by a kindergarten classmate that if swallowed, ever expanding bubbles would form in the victim’s stomach and ultimately kill him. He’d had nightmares well into second grade until his father dispelled him of the myth. Unfortunately, he had replaced Zack’s fear with humiliation, by laughing heartily at his little boy’s terror.
“I don’t know, Justin,” Zack answered now. “I never heard of anything like that before. Where did you learn about it?”
“School.” Justin was fingering the button on Zack’s shirt pocket. A sure sign of anxiety in the sensitive child.
“From your teacher, or from one of the kids in your class?”
Justin stopped fiddling with the button. “Zenita was talking to Trey and K.B., and she said that there was a cereal killer in Springfield.”
Zack sighed. Justin was seven years old. From the moment that Zack had first brought his infant son home from the hospital, Zack had been trying to protect him from real world images of violence, like the ones that seemed to be present in every single television news broadcast on every single day. Zack knew firsthand how terrible people could be, and he had hoped to delay for as long as he could their invasion into little Justin’s world.
Apparently, the invasion had already taken place, in a second grade classroom, thanks to fellow seven-year-olds named Zenita, Trey, and K.B.
“A serial killer is someone who, well…” Zack hesitated. He wanted to lie. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run out of the room. Why did his perfect little boy have to bear this kind of madness?
Zack cleared his throat, and started again. He had to tell Justin, because sooner or later, someone else would. And unless Zenita, Trey, and K.B. all came down with chicken pox tonight, it sounded like it would be sooner.
“A serial killer is a person who is sick, Justin. Mentally sick. Someone whose brain isn’t working right. Because a serial killer is someone who kills a person, and then, later, kills more people. The word serial in serial killer sounds just like cereal, like cornflakes, but it’s actually spelled differently. And of course it means something very different.”
Justin was back to twiddling the button. “So there is somebody in Springfield who has a sick brain who is killing more than one person?”
Zack wasn’t going to lie, but he was going to make this as easy as he could. “Well, the police aren’t sure if there is a serial killer in Springfield or not. But there have been three killings recently, so the police are telling everyone to be really, really careful about who they let into their homes. And you know our rule about opening doors, right, buddy?”
Justin’s dark eyes were solemn. “Right. I don’t answer the door unless you are with me.”
“You got it.” Zack squeezed Justin. “Now I need to tell you three secrets, okay?”
Justin nodded. “Okay.”
Zack put his lips up to his son’s ear. “First secret. I will never, ever, ever, let anything bad happen to you, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good. Second secret. You need new pajamas. The ones you are wearing are so short they are making my ankles cold.”
Justin giggled. “Daddy,” he chided. “C’mon.”
“Third secret.” Zack pointed to the red leather chair where Justin’s best friend was snoring gently. “Kermit is dreaming about the fun day you are going to have with him after you get home from school tomorrow.”
And at that very instant, Zack figured out the key to the serial killer’s letter.
FIFTEEN
September 12
VERA DEMOPOLOUS SAT AT THE CONFERENCE table and watched as Terry Tallach took the sheets of paper out of his briefcase and spread them in front of her and Ellis. The big lawyer was wearing a dark suit with a nice-looking red patterned tie. Normally, Vera thought that kind of clothing was a little stuffy, but on Terry, it looked just right.
Apparently Terry’s partner, Zack, who was stuck in court all day today, had broken the code in the Laurence Seta letter, and he and Terry wanted to get the information into police hands as soon as possible.
“Okay,” Terry said. “Here’s what we had. The killer misspelled a bunch of words in the letter. Phalanges, onomatopoeia, inevitable, mortician, and misspellings. And from those five words, we were working with the letters that he had left out—p, h, o, a, c, and s. And we were rearranging them, hoping that they were going to spell the name of the next victim, until we found out about the latest killing.”
Ellis nodded. “That’s as far as we got.” Poor Ellis was still down on himself for not figuring out the code in time to stop the Seta murder. And he had spilled coffee on the front of his shirt this morning, so he looked as bad as he felt.
Terry handed one of the sheets of notes to Vera. “So yesterday, after dinner, Zack was talking to his son, Justin, about school, and all of a sudden, he remembered one of the combinations of letters.” Terry pointed to the one that was circled on the page. C-a-p-o-h-s.
“What does capohs, whatever that is, have to do with Laurence Seta?” Vera asked.
“The thing was, we were so focused on getting those letters to spell us a name, we overlooked the fact that they might spell something else. Like this.” And then Terry took a pen, and wrote CAPO H.S.
“Capo High School? Seta didn’t live anywhere near the high school.” Ellis frowned.
“Right,” agreed Terry. “But people who’ve been in Springfield long enough know that even though everybody calls it Capo High School, its official name is Stella Capo High School. Named after some local kid nobody remembers anymore.”
Ellis put his hand to his forehead. “Don’t tell me. That’s how you get Seta’s name.”
“That’s it.” Terry pointed again to the page on which he had written the letters p-h-o-a-c-s. “To figure out the answer, you have to rearrange the letters he omitted from Stella Capo H.S.: s-t-e-l-l-a, the same way you rearranged the omitted letters from the misspelled words: p-h-o-a-c
-s to spell out Capo H.S. You take the fifth letter he omitted, c, and move it to the first position. Then you take the fourth letter he omitted, a, and move it to the second position. Then the first letter, p, goes in the third position. And so on.”
Vera picked up a pen. “The omitted letters are ‘S-t-e-l-l-a,’ right? So you take the fifth letter in Stella, that’s l, and it goes in the first position.” She wrote down l. “Next is the fourth letter. That’s also an l, which goes in the second position. Next is the first letter, s, then the third letter, e, the second letter, t, and the sixth letter, a.” By the time she had finished, she had written l-l-s-e-t-a.
“The letters spell out L.L.Seta.” Ellis opened a folder that was sitting on the table, and pulled out the police report of the Seta homicide. “The victim’s name was Laurence Lloyd Seta. L. L. Seta. Jesus Christ. We could have stopped him.”
“I don’t know about you,” Terry said, “but I doubt the killer actually thought you had enough time to solve this and then stop him.”
“We had the answer in our hands.” Ellis was despondent. “If we’d been fast enough, we could have nailed this bastard.”
Terry stood up. “I think he was just yanking your chain. Do you really think he was going to give you the time to solve his little mystery? I think he murdered the guy before you even got the letter.”
“He’s probably right, Ellis,” Vera said. “I just hope that we can use this if he sends us another one.”
Ellis rubbed his eyes. “Oh, he’ll send another letter. Believe me. Serial killers love to jerk people around. They get off knowing that they’re smarter than everybody else. They especially like it when cops run around in circles chasing them. He’s probably right under our noses.”
Vera hadn’t been able to find anything in the Lombardo case that was like these letters. But there had to be something in the connection between the two cases that she could use to help her solve these new murders. And if anyone knew the details of the original Springfield Shooter evidence, it was Terry and Zack. “You haven’t seen anything in the Lombardo file that reminds you of these letters, have you?”