Death Watch

by Elizabeth Forrest

  Deathwatch

  Elizabeth Forrest

  Chapter 1

  The lighting in the prison’s interrogation room was harsh. It was aimed to leave no shadows in any corner, and the passageway beyond it seemed dim in contrast. Angry graffiti scarred the wooden tabletop. Chairs were scattered about, only three for the six or seven who stood there. Seven, Carter thought. I always forget to count myself. But neither Carter nor any of the others sat down.

  His fingers moved against the tops of his thighs, not twitching, but typing. Typing out his thoughts and the story he was putting together as he stood in the corner, waiting. The room smelled of Death Row, although few enough had gone to their sentencing in the last several years. It was the waiting which sweated the odor out of the inmates, he decided. It was the waiting, and the anger, and the hatred, and the fear which sank into the stone.

  The guard looked at him, a bluff young man, his glance passing over him, catching the finger movement, pausing, then looking away.

  He didn’t look threatening enough, Carter noted, almost with disappointment.

  Steps came shuffling down the corridor. The two lawyers, the warden, two FBI suits, and one guard all turned to the locked gateway. Three guards, one of them the turnkey, the other two doing escort at the prisoner’s elbows, brought in the man for whom they all stood waiting.

  Heavily shackled, garbed in prison oranges, the man had lost more weight, Carter noticed, since he’d last seen him. His dark brown hair had grown past the sharp edges of a stylish razor cut. He had the tanless complexion of someone who’d spent years incarcerated, but there was something about his face which had always fascinated Carter. Now he could put a finger on it ... more than one, as he mentally typed it into his memory. The face was virtually unlined. A wrinkle or two about the eyes, from the West Coast sun. But no laugh or smile wrinkles, despite the vaguely pleasant expression the prisoner wore, as though life had never permanently touched him. Carter, a good five years younger, had a face which could double as a road map.

  Within that noncommittal face, however, the light hazel eyes were busy, taking in everything as his escorts marched him into the room. They put their backs to the door as the heavy locks clicked into place.

  Bauer’s glance slid over him as if Carter were of absolutely no consequence. The serial killer examined every square inch of the room deliberately, slowly, until his gaze came back to Carter. He was looking, Carter Wyndall realized suddenly, for a way out or anything he could use as a weapon. Finding nothing, he turned his attention back to those of flesh whom he might manipulate instead. As if he’d suddenly gained consequence, the man looked fully at Carter. Then he smiled.

  “Hello, Windy. Nice to see you again.”

  The warden spoke icily, “We’re waiting, Bauer. Shut up and sit down.”

  Bauer shuffled forward, his hands snugged down in front of him with so little latitude that if he fell, he would fall face first with no way to catch himself. Bauer’s falling was the least of their worries. One of the FBI suits, the black man with gray heavily salted through his hair, pulled a chair out. He was Tyrone Baker, and with the execution of the prisoner days hence, he would face his retirement with the murderer’s death as a sort of final victory. Bauer, still looking vaguely amused, sat down.

  “Just greeting old friends,” he said. “Surely there’s nothing wrong in that. Can’t add a consecutive life sentence for that, now, can you?” A trace of the South lingered in his voice, though Carter knew that Bauer had spent no more than five of his early years there. It was a part of the charming facade, carefully re-created.

  The second FBI agent, beefy white but neat, navy-suited with a blue and silver splashed tie, sat down across from Bauer. He had the haircut Bauer had once owned, sharp, defined, every strand blow-dried into place. He was the agent on record, John Nelson, who’d brought Bauer in. He did not look happy now to see his quarry in shackles.

  Carter imagined that he, like all of them, would be happier when Bauer was six feet under, and that date was less than two weeks off, all appeals finally exhausted. It had been a long eight years.

  Warden Mulhoney tapped his fingers on the table, trying to get Bauer’s attention, but Bauer was looking at Carter again. Even white teeth showed slightly as he asked, offhandedly, “Did you find the body?”

  Carter found himself loath to answer. He did not like being in the position of making news. He did not understand why Bauer had asked for him, or passed the information to him that he had, but he’d gone looking anyway, with the police, and found a grisly treasure. Now he was in it, somehow, enmeshed with this monster, and he did not like it at all.

  Nelson answered sharply for him. “Yes, we did.” The FBI agent’s eyes flashed hard and bright, as if in response to a challenge.

  “There’s more,” the prisoner said with satisfaction, “where that came from.”

  That, typed Carter silently. As if the tortured skeletal framework had not once belonged to anything human, let alone a nine-year-old girl. More where that came from. He controlled a shudder, in case Bauer was still watching him somehow although the man’s attention was now directed at the agent and the warden.

  “What do you say, gentlemen?” Bauer prodded a little.

  Mulhoney’s mouth twisted. The words spilled out. “You’ve been granted an indefinite stay. As long as you talk, and locations and details pan out, we’ll let you keep talking. But the minute we think you’re jerking us around—”

  Bauer smiled. The expression folded into his unlined face around his mouth, making little impact. Carter saw that when he stopped smiling, evidence of the gesture would be gone as completely as if it had never happened. He dropped one shoulder slightly, and looked over at Carter.

  “Thank you, Windy,” he said.

  He wanted to remain silent. He should remain silent. He wasn’t a media journalist, by God, he was a newspaperman, and this monster had chosen him, cut him out of the herd of reporters following the trials for reasons Carter had never understood, but he knew that flashy verbiage wasn’t part of it. He’d been given interviews he could not turn down, and, eventually, information he could not withhold. Nelson hated him for that. Goaded, he could not hold his tongue. “Don’t thank me. I have my press pass for the execution. But if your staying alive a little longer means one more family doesn’t have to wonder why their loved one never came home, then I guess I have to live with it.”

  Bauer’s smile flushed into a grin. “I owe you one,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard a word Carter said.

  Carter could see it written in the body language all around him. No one there but Bauer was grateful to Carter for getting the man a stay of execution, not even his attorneys. He’d gotten the defense he was entitled to. Now the state and his victims deserved justice. For a fleeting moment, Carter wished he’d never published the interviews, the startling new confession. Ted Bundy had tried this in his final hours, too, but he’d jerked too many chains, been too confident they wouldn’t fry him if he started talking. He’d been too coy. His ego could not resist the opportunity he’d been given. He’d tried to drag out the confessions, had been vague, thinking to give himself years. The state of Florida had stopped listening almost immediately and fried him anyway. Carter wished the state of Illinois had done the same here.

  Mulhoney said flatly, “Don’t get your dancing shoes yet. Your movements will be highly restricted. You’ll be part of an experimental program, as well, if you agree to this.”

  Good, thought Carter. Stick needles and tubes all over him. Make him bleed a little. Get something back.

  Bauer’s smile vanished. As Carter had imagined, the smooth, passionless face looked as if it had never pretended the warmth. “What kind of program?”

  “T
esting. Neurological mapping. Crime scene re-creation.”

  The lawyers, who’d been absolutely silent all this time, stirred. The younger one, Latino with a thick gold chain and a Hebrew chai hanging upon his collar, said, “You don’t have to do this. We can negotiate further.”

  Bauer dismissed him with a wave of one finger. Animation returned to Bauer’s face. The eyes warmed, this time. “Memories,” he said as if savoring them. “Of course.”

  Carter concealed a shudder as he turned away. The two attorneys leaned over the warden, brought papers out of their pockets, no paper clips, no staples, one ballpoint for signing, no cap. Bauer was watched very carefully as he used the pen to sign, and returned it.

  Amused, Bauer watched his attorneys and the warden sign as well. While their heads dipped low, he traded a last look with Carter.

  He smiled. Thank you, he mouthed silently.

  Carter would have turned his back on him, but even with nine other men in the room and shackled, it would not have been a prudent thing to do.

  What had he done?

  Seven months later, when word came that Bauer had escaped, Carter tried to commit suicide for the first time.

  He tried again when the first body was found, a young woman, with a note pinned to her mutilated chest.

  Thank you, it read.

  He never had any doubt who the note was for. He lost the will, the need, to live. He did not thank the paramedics who thought they’d restored him. Eventually, he lost his job and drifted westward, still writing, his face still etched with a roadmap of lines, and the light gone from his eyes.

  That was what he saw whenever he cared to look into a mirror. He rarely cared to. He bought an electric razor just so he wouldn’t have to, anymore.

  Chapter 2

  McKenzie hustled indoors. Instead of a Seattle late morning after a brisk rain, the house smelled of coffee growing cold in its pot, the fabric softener from laundry in the dryer, and the musky aroma of dog. The kitchen door creaked behind her as she shut it.

  The rental house was modest by any standards, but she had done what she could to make it homey. The furnishings were carefully chosen buys from local garage sales, the curtains she’d hand-sewn from decorator sheets bought at close-out stores. She was proud of what she’d been able to accomplish starting from scratch. Fresh paint gleamed on walls displaying pock and spackle marks from previous tenants. Only the Northwestern tendency toward mildew, a never-ending battle, could wilt her. But it was the dog smell, faint but distinguishable, which made McKenzie smile. “Cody! I’m home.”

  She dropped her backpack to the floor as Cody galloped in from the family room. His golden retriever tail sliced the air vigorously, nails scrabbling across the linoleum for traction. His throat swelled with greeting. The young dog, no longer a puppy but not yet an adult, launched himself at her knees. He butted his head into her hands, filling her fingers with dog kisses and whining his anxiety to her.

  “We made it through finals!” she said to him. “And you’re famous. Look!” He nosed the slick magazine from her hand as she pulled it from her backpack. It landed cover outward on the linoleum, its woodsy cover photography with tall trees and college logo, proclaiming itself the “North Woods Leavings.” “Hey! I’m a published poet, even if you don’t care. Sarah nagged me and nagged me, so I did it.” She grabbed the magazine up before he could trample it. “Just give me a bone, huh?”

  She ran her hands through his silky fur as he leaned against her denim knees. She loved the feel of him. It was both sensual and comforting. What would she do without Sarah and Cody in her life? What joy would she have? Her marriage was a cage, classwork and her friends a temporary key. And here at home, Cody was her only warmth. “I love you, big pup.”

  The golden retriever pressed against her, ears down, his voice a soft grumble of anxiety. As her fingertips traced the muscles along his back, she came to his neck and found the hackles raised there, ever so slightly. He wasn’t just happy to see her, then. Something scared or bothered him. The budding warmth of the day escaped her, bled away and replaced by a shock of cold. Her head throbbed once, slightly. McKenzie put her hand to the bridge of her nose, and rubbed lightly between her eyebrows.

  Somebody was out there.

  It was a tingle of that old feeling, the one she could never quite explain to anyone, the feeling that kept her hanging around the house sometimes, just long enough to get that phone call. The feeling that sometimes let her finish Sarah Whiteside’s exuberant statements before even fast-talking Sarah could get there.

  A feeling that walked up her spine now with icy steps.

  Cody whined again, and pushed his cold nose into her palms. His worry chased away her excitement.

  McKenzie paused. She grew still, trying to listen over the dog’s sounds. Nothing reached her, but fear grazed the back of her neck anyway. Was someone else in the house?

  “Who’s there?”

  Her voice echoed back thinly from the sparsely furnished rooms. No answer. She ought to be alone.

  No one but her and the dog, alone for days, and she expected to be alone for days longer. These were her days of peace, the solitary days when her husband was driving a truck on the road. She normally did not mind them, found nothing to fear in them. But today was different. McKenzie swallowed tightly. Something flickered in Cody’s eyes, something drawing his attention. Something behind her. She bent over, reaching for the strap of her backpack to heft its reassuring weight. Cody showed his teeth.

  As she bent over, the intruder spoke. “Now that’s a pretty sight. I’d like it a lot better if I hadn’t been waiting all morning to see it.”

  The flat, emotionless voice filled the kitchen.

  Her heart fluttered. “Jack! You’re home early.” McKenzie bolted upright, pack in hand, turning. She looked into the flat-cheekboned face of her husband, into dirty-brown eyes that held no welcome in them, and forced a calming smile.

  He pushed at the sleeves of his worn flannel shirt. Blue and red plaid had bled into one another, into a faded burgundy. His hips were hollowed inside his jeans as he leaned against the doorjamb. “Days early, and what do I get for the effort? I pulled back deadhead, just to be with you, and I find the house empty.”

  “I had finals.” She shoved the magazine into her backpack, trying not to let her hands shake. She kept her voice evenly modulated, not patronizing, but gentle. Unprovocative, nonaggressive. Dear God, please let nothing she did be the spark that set him off.

  His eyes flickered over her. “Thank God for that. Maybe I’ll have a real wife, then. Or has Sarah talked you out of that, too?” He moved his lanky body into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

  He didn’t want an answer, but she felt she had to give him one. “Sarah doesn’t tell me what to do.” McKenzie bit off each word, to get them all out. Sarah’s plain, yet engaging face, perpetually framed by sable hair tucked into braids, interrupted by wire-rimmed glasses, brightened by an everlasting smile gave her momentary strength. “She’s just a friend.”

  “Tell that to my phone bill.” Jack stretched an arm over the back of the dinette chair. “She told you to go back to school; you did it. She told you to put your poem in the student magazine; you did it. Maybe if she told you to clean the oven, you’d do that. Maybe I could work this to my advantage.”

  Cody, pressed against her knees, had begun to tremble. Dogs, she thought, with hearing so much better than hers. Did he hear the same menace in Jack’s voice that she heard, only magnified? Her temples pulsed. Streaks of crimson across the floor.... Mac blinked in confusion, as something slashed its way across her vision, interrupting it. A feeling of dread balled itself in her stomach, threatening to rise, to fill her.

  He put his callused hand out. “So let me see it.”

  “What?”

  “Are you stupid? Let me see it.”

  She gripped her bag. “No. I mean, it’s nothing. Just a silly poem about the dog.”

  “No love song to me
, eh?”

  “No. Nothing about us. I mean, that would be too personal, wouldn’t it?” McKenzie dropped the backpack, moving automatically, woodenly, to the counter and the coffeemaker. “Fresh coffee. That’s what you need. It’ll just take a minute.” Quickly, to hide the shaking of her hands, she opened cabinets to get coffee and a filter, got rid of the old brew to replace it with the new.

  The flash of vision had rattled her, along with Jack’s mood. He was watching her every second, hawklike. She could feel it drilling between her shoulder blades. More by feel than sight, she measured the coffee into the filter of the coffeemaker and set the timer. She tripped over the dog as she moved to fill the pot with water. Cody flinched, but stayed at her feet the whole time, weaving in and around her ankles, protecting her and seeking her reassurance at the same time.

  What was Jack staring at? She pushed a strand of hair behind one ear, feeling the heat in her face in response to being watched.

  Calm. Keep calm. Let sleeping dogs lie. Don’t wake sleeping dogs. Don’t wake your father’s fury. Don’t ... The memory of her mother’s voice echoed her own thoughts. Be calm. She held her breath a moment to slow her heartbeat. She could remember her kitchen, growing up, her father, his volatile temper, her mother saying, Calm down, just calm down, before sending McKenzie away to safe exile in the back bedroom.