by D P Lyle
“How could it?”
“He mutilated the bodies.”
All of Hublein’s nightmares collided with each other. From the first time he read the project protocol, he had reservations. The drug hadn’t been thoroughly tested and wasn’t yet ready for phase three trials. Why didn’t he reject it? Let someone else do it. He knew the answer. Money. Big-time money. More than the last five studies they had done combined.
“Very similar to the other killings in the news,” Pearce said. “Sheriff Savage, the other two.”
“How do you know that?” Hublein asked.
“I know, how is unimportant.”
Hublein hated Pearce’s arrogant, cold-blooded manner. Telling this tale of horror as if it was a bedtime story. No emotion. Like a goddamn reptile.
Wexlar looked up at Pearce. “You don’t really believe Brian Kurtz is this crazed killer the police are looking for, do you?”
“Looks that way.”
“Jesus.” Hublein felt faint, and cold sweat erupted on his forehead. “What are we going to do?”
Pearce shrugged. “Deal with him.”
“How?”
“By whatever means are necessary.”
Hublein took another slug of Scotch. “What does that mean?”
A thin smile lifted the corners of Pearce’s mouth. “We can’t allow him to be apprehended, now can we?”
Hublein stared at Pearce. His mind raced. If Brian was the killer and if the police did arrest him, there would be a shitload of uncomfortable questions to answer. Why didn’t he, Brian’s physician, recognize the potential and prevent this? Why did he allow such an unstable person to continue taking an experimental drug? The lawsuits would be staggering.
“What can we do about it?” Wexlar asked.
“Make him disappear,” Pearce said.
“Kill him?” Hublein couldn’t believe he was actually having this conversation.
“Termination’s an option.”
“You can’t do that,” Hublein said.
“We might not have a choice.”
“But … killing him? I won’t be a party to murder.”
Pearce stared right at him. “You already are.”
Realization settled on Hublein, compressing him deeper into the chair. Pearce was right. “Still, there must be some other way.”
“Like what?” Pearce said.
“He’s coming to the office tomorrow. Let me take him out of the program, stop the drug. See if all this aggression subsides … in a few days … a week at the outside.”
“And if he’s arrested while you’re waiting?”
“He won’t be. Not if he calms down and doesn’t …”
“Doesn’t kill anyone else?” Pearce spat the words at him.
This was a nightmare. Hublein rubbed his chest, the pressure inside mounting. “You can’t just kill him. It’s not even his fault. It’s … it’s my fault.” There it was. The truth. Hublein felt old, tired, dirty. It was his fault. He let this happen. “I knew this was wrong from day one.”
“But you took the money anyway, didn’t you?” Pearce’s smirking grin mocked him.
“Yes, I did.”
“You got what you wanted. Now it’s time to do a little housecleaning. That way no one will know about you, the money, or that Kurtz was a part of the project.”
Hublein walked to the bar and poured more Scotch. A thousand thoughts vied for his attention, swirling and fluttering in his head like a flock of caged birds, looking for an escape route. “Tomorrow, I’ll stop the drug.” He was talking to himself more than to anyone else. He slumped into his chair again. “I’ll stop it, and then he’ll be all right. That will resolve this mess.”
“If it’s the drug,” Wexlar said. “It might just be the way he is.”
“Mel, he’s taking an experimental psychotropic drug. A drug we’re giving to him.”
“All his levels have been normal. It’s not like he’s toxic or anything.”
Hublein frowned. “It’s experimental. We don’t know all the problems it can cause. That’s why we’re doing the study.” He sighed. “You know this drug has a less than stellar history.”
“So?”
“Want to explain that to a jury?”
Pearce offered a slight grunt. “You two can do as you wish, but let’s be clear on this … I’ll take care of the problem as I see fit.”
“Listen—” Hublein began.
Pearce cut him off. “You listen. Push some paper around. Get drunk. Take a vacation. Do whatever the hell you want, but I’m going to solve this.” He collected his bag from the floor. “Truth is, I’m the only one that can pull your dicks out of the fire.” He turned and left the room.
The two physicians sat in stunned silence. Hublein finally spoke. “Mel, what are we going to do?”
“Nothing. Pearce is right. Brian should disappear.”
“You aren’t serious? You don’t agree with that animal, do you?”
“I don’t like it, but I see no other way out. With no Brian, there’s no trail back here. At least not one we can’t cover with a few changes in his records. He’s a violent kid, and if he vanishes no one will suspect our involvement, except as his caring physicians. If he talks, we’re dead.”
“Maybe not. Kurtz doesn’t even know he’s part of the project or even that it exists.”
“But he knows he’s on a new drug. How long do you think it will take a toxicology lab to figure out what it is? And where it must have come from?” Wexlar sighed and rubbed one temple. “They might then snoop into the others. Test Gregory Hay. Dig up Martin Hankins and test him, too. What if Swenson turns up? That would be four violent killers with our drug in them. A drug they could not have gotten anywhere else. We’d be royally fucked.”
Hublein leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
“Like it or not,” Wexlar went on, “Pearce might be our only hope.”
“I can’t believe this.” Hublein searched his brain for some other solution. “Tomorrow, I’ll stop the drug. Maybe if he improves, Pearce will back off.”
CHAPTER 46
THURSDAY 12:32 P.M.
A RARE SMILE CROSSED HAROLD PEARCE’S FACE AS HE ENTERED HIS basement office. Hublein. What a moron. How did he ever get this far in life?
Pearce knew he had played Hublein and Wexlar masterfully. They were convinced he was on their side. That he was their protector, their salvation, their fucking knight in shining armor. What a joke. Right now they were too scared not to trust him. Fear and confusion are powerful allies.
Tomorrow, Hublein would pull Kurtz from the project. Kurtz would panic and grab any hand that could give him what he needed. Funny thing about anger and rage. They’re as addictive as crack cocaine. And Kurtz was addicted. Big-time. Whom could he turn to? Who could supply the drug he so needed? He had to admit, Smithson had covered all the bases.
He unzipped his black bag and removed the two cell phones. He laid aside the prepaid one, the one he had used to call and taunt Dub Walker. He flipped on the other phone, the secure one, and dialed Smithson. He knew this phone was completely untraceable. “Hell, the president himself couldn’t track it,” Smithson had said. Routed through a dozen computers in nearly as many countries, following its communication path would be no small feat. When Smithson answered, Pearce gave him a quick rundown of the evening’s events and then laid out his plan for “engaging Dub Walker more fully in the situation.”
“Excellent,” Smithson said. “You’re going to be a very rich man.”
Pearce disconnected the call. Rich sounded good to him.
He pulled open his desk drawer and slid out a photo. He leaned back in his chair and imagined he was the guy in the picture. The guy lounging on a Tahitian beach with a potent drink and a slim young blonde.
Life was good.
CHAPTER 47
THURSDAY 6:21 P.M.
CLAIRE HOVERED IN THAT ZONE OF NEAR-WAKEFULNESS, HER BRAIN absorbing sensations: the softness of the thick c
omforter; Dub’s rhythmic breathing; the warmth of his body against her leg; the unfamiliar, yet familiar, smell of his bedroom.
She opened her eyes to darkness. Perhaps dawn had begun to push against the curtains, but she couldn’t be sure. She raised her head and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 6:21. She settled more deeply into the bed and pulled the comforter up under her chin. Dub stirred but didn’t awaken. She looked over at him. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. She couldn’t believe she was lying here. This was two nights in a row that they had been together. That hadn’t happened in years. Usually it was a hit-and-miss sort of thing. Maybe she needed it, maybe it was him. Either way it was a comfortable arrangement. But now what?
She was practically living here again. That overstated it a bit. She didn’t really have any clothes here. Just some jeans and shirts.
And her gun. She had decided that dragging half her closet over wasn’t practical. She could always go by home and dress for work. Still, since she couldn’t sleep in her own bed, it felt like she was living here. She knew Dub wouldn’t allow her to stay home alone. And for some reason she didn’t seem to mind. Not really. Why not? Because she was comfortable here? Because she was afraid of the mad dog that was out there roaming the streets? Neither of those reasons were like her. She prided herself in being tough and independent. Not needing the comfort of a relationship.
Get a grip, Claire. This was a temporary situation. This killer would be caught, she would return home, and life would go on. She and Dub would continue as they always had.
Again she glanced at the clock. 6:38. She considered waking him and having her way with him, but decided it was time to kick the day in gear. She slipped from the bed, grabbed her purse from the floor, and tiptoed to the bathroom, closing the door quietly. She splashed water on her face, tousled her hair, and examined herself in the mirror. Not a pretty sight.
She took a quick shower and put on her makeup. She used very little, so it only took a couple of minutes. Now, what to wear? Jeans or the cocktail dress she had on last night, now draped over the back of a chair?
“Good morning.”
She jumped and turned toward the bed. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.” Dub lay in bed, the covers up to his waist, his chest bare. “Aren’t you a bit underdressed this morning?”
“Very funny.”
“Why are you leaving so early?”
“I’ve got a newscast to put together. The one I should have researched last night.”
“I see. Now that you’ve used me, you’re going to leave me here all alone?”
She laughed. “That’s right. Now that I’m satisfied, I can leave.”
“I feel so cheap.” He half-pouted, half-smiled.
“Poor baby.” She sat next to him on the bed. “Want me to get your teddy bear for you?”
He pulled her on top of him. “I’ve got a better idea.” His hand slid down her back and over her bare buttocks. “I take back what I said. You’re perfectly dressed.”
“Quite the comedian, aren’t you?” She pushed his hand away and kissed him on the cheek. “Got to go.” She rolled off of him. After wiggling into her dress, she said, “Mind if I grab one of the OJs in your fridge?”
“Sure. There are some granola bars in the basket on the counter, if you want.”
“You sure know how to wine and dine a girl.”
“I work at it.”
“I’m out of here. Call you later.”
Harold Pearce ducked as Claire’s white Mercedes E550 went by. Parked beneath a broad magnolia tree just two doors down from Dub Walker’s house, he watched her turn south on Monte Sano Boulevard.
He had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, intending to deliver his special gift right to Dub’s door. Claire’s car in the drive changed that. Meant she had been there all night. Meant they were back together. On some intimate level, anyway. A better plan emerged. His gift would hit her much harder than it would Dub. Dub would be angry, but she would be terrified, and if she was terrified, Dub would be furious.
His new plan was to place the gift inside her car, but when she appeared, wearing a sleek black dress, purse over her shoulder, shoes in one hand, obviously heading home after a night of whoring around, an even better plan evolved. The impact would be much greater if she opened the present when alone, with no Dub to lean on and no one to dampen her fear or soothe her revulsion. This was getting better by the minute.
Some might consider this a stroke of luck. Harold Pearce knew better. Luck favored the prepared, and if he was anything, he was prepared. Always. If not, he would have been dead long ago. Stuffed in some sand hole in Iraq or a woodland grave in Bosnia.
He followed the Mercedes across Monte Sano, down Governor’s Drive, and onto Whitesburg Drive. He settled in behind her, keeping a two-or three-car buffer between them. When she hung a left on 4 Mile Post Road, his traffic cover evaporated. No problem. He knew where she was going. Bailey Cove and her cute little house. By the time he eased to the curb between two cars half a block away, she had pulled into her garage, and the door was closing.
Now, how to get the package into her hands without attracting a neighbor’s attention? At this hour he didn’t have the luxury of darkness, and the neighborhood was beginning to awaken. He could simply walk up and lean it against her door. Clean and easy. Act casual and no one would notice. Maybe stuff it in her mailbox. Maybe drive by and toss it alongside the rolled edition of the Huntsville Times he saw in her driveway. That would be even cleaner. He could then simply call her and tell her she had a surprise package. As he was mulling his options, another one presented itself.
A boy on a skateboard waggled by him, reached the corner, and jumped off the curb into the street, where he did a rear-wheel one-eighty. He then gracefully hopped up on the sidewalk and headed back toward him, cutting a serpentine pattern.
Pearce settled a blue cap on his head and slipped on a pair of sunglasses. He then tugged a white cotton glove on one hand, opened his black bag, and extracted a sealed envelope. He stepped from his car.
“Hey, kid,” he said.
The boy slid to a stop and looked up at him, but said nothing.
“Want to make ten bucks?”
CHAPTER 48
THURSDAY 7:28 A.M.
I HAD GOTTEN UP JUST AFTER CLAIRE LEFT AND SHOWERED. I PUT out a bowl of corn for Kramden and Norton and then polished off some oatmeal. I now sat at the kitchen table, enjoying a second cup of coffee. John Lee Hooker and Bonnie Raitt droned “I’m in the Mood” from the stereo. I was halfway through the Huntsville Times when the phone rang. It was T-Tommy. Bad news always arrived early.
“It’s ugly,” he said. “Woman’s sister found them. Came by to pick up some photos. She’s a wreck, as you’d imagine.”
“Give me the address. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
I hung up and called Claire.
“Well, I see Mr. Sleepyhead’s up and about,” she said.
“They found last night’s victims.” I heard her take in a sharp breath.
“Was he telling the truth?”
“Yeah. Kushner family. On Manfred Drive. North of Winchester.”
“I’ll get a crew together and meet you there.”
Claire stood naked in front of her closet, trying to decide what to wear. She still needed to fix her makeup. What she had done at Dub’s wasn’t close to camera-ready, and a live report would be a must. She had already tracked down Jeffrey and told him to snag the van and meet her at the scene. She stared at the clothes, but her brain wouldn’t function.
Last night, the idea that the killer had murdered a couple was merely speculation, leaving a measure of hope. Perhaps the killer had been lying, playing a sick head game, tormenting Dub with his gruesome tales. Now, it was fact.
Think, Claire. Any of the outfits would do. Why was this so difficult?
A knock at the door. She slipped on her bathrobe, moved through the living room, and opened it. A kid stood t
here, skateboard in one hand, blue cap cocked to one side. He handed her an envelope. “This is for you.”
“What is—”
The phone rang. “Just a minute.” She walked over and picked up the portable phone. “Hello.”
“Good morning, Claire.”
“Who is this?”
“You don’t know me.” The voice was cold, hard. “But I know you.”
“Who is this?” She tried to sound forceful, but her voice sounded weak even to her.
“You were there last night. After I called your boyfriend.” He chuckled softly. “I’m sorry … your ex-husband.”
Her breath caught.
“Not much to say, I see. What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” “What do you want?”
“All in due time. You and Dub Walker are quite a pair. How cozy. All shacked up in that mountain-top house of his.”
He was there. At Dub’s. He must have followed me here.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Oh, but it is.” His voice was cold and mocking. “Did you talk about me last night? Cook up more lies?”
“No.” Come on, Claire, get it together.
“Don’t lie to me. I know what the two of you are up to.”
She examined the envelope. No address. No stamp. Not something delivered to the wrong address and the kid was just being neighborly. The killer must have handed it directly to him. Which meant he must be close. The kid? She looked toward the still-open door. He was gone.
“Where are you?”
“Very close.”
She hurried to the door and pushed it shut. Too hard.
“Go ahead. Lock it. It won’t help.”
She pulled back the curtain and looked out. Everything appeared normal.
“It didn’t help the Kushners,” he went on. “You should go by. Take a look. A true work of art.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“You know what they say … one man’s art is another man’s massacre.”
Her gun? Fuck. It was at Dub’s. The bottom of her overnight bag. Beneath her jeans. Her chest tightened. Her legs felt cold and dead. She moved to the dining table and sat. Relax. Do what Dub did. Try to get information. “What do you want?”