Stress Fracture: Book One in the Dub Walker Series

by D P Lyle

  “Look, I’ve got—” he began.

  Laranne stumbled past him. Then he saw she had been pushed. Her husband followed her inside.

  “I told you to leave my wife alone,” Carl said. “I go away, and you two rut like a couple of pigs.”

  “I have to be somewhere,” Brian said. “Right now.”

  “Too bad.” The tendons and blood vessels in Carl’s neck stood out like cables. His jaw flexed. “I want to settle this right now.”

  “Okay,” Brian said.

  He hit Carl in the face. He went down. Hard. Laranne screamed. He hit her, too. She sprawled to the floor and didn’t move.

  Carl began rising to his knees. Brian picked up a hand weight. He really didn’t have time for this shit.

  CHAPTER 57

  THURSDAY 3:17 P.M.

  WE FOUND THE WOODSIDE APARTMENTS A BLOCK OFF HOLMES AVenue. A collection of half a dozen tan, wood, two-story eightplexes, arranged around a central open area. The grass could do with a mowing, but the buildings seemed to be in good shape. We saw no activity, most residents probably not home from work yet.

  Number 8, Kurtz’s apartment, faced the street and was the upper right unit of the building nearest the parking lot entrance. T-Tommy and I climbed the stairs. Brian’s door stood open.

  T-Tommy grabbed my arm and held me back. He pulled his weapon, a Sig P226, and moved toward the door, stopping just short. Gun by his shoulder, angled up, he gave a quick look around the frame. He froze. “Jesus.”

  Two bodies lay on the floor. A man and a woman. Both with severe head trauma. A bloody hand weight lay beside the woman.

  T-Tommy searched the other rooms while I checked for pulses. Found none. The bodies were warm, the blood only partially clotted.

  Time of death? Ten minutes ago, max. We had just missed him.

  The coppery odor of fresh blood mixed with the odor of sweat. A workout bench and several stacks of weights occupied one corner of the living room, a desk and computer the other. A pair of sweaty gym shorts and a towel lay on the floor. I saw several holes punched into the drywall and a mangled chair on the floor near a sofa.

  T-Tommy came from the bedroom. “It’s clean.” He flipped open his cell phone and called for backup and the forensics science crew. I snatched a dish towel from the kitchen and sat down at the desk. Using the towel like a glove, I pulled open each desk drawer. The two to my left were empty, but in the middle drawer I found a notebook and opened it.

  There were four pages inside. Each had a name at the top: Carl Petersen, William Allison, Mike Savage, Albert Kushner. Bingo.

  T-Tommy looked over my shoulder. “He’s the guy.”

  Below each name was the address of each victim’s home. Line drawings of the property and the house layout. Hand sketches of the routes of approach and escape. This guy was prepared.

  T-Tommy called Luther, told him what we had found, and asked for a BOLO on Kurtz and any vehicles registered to him.

  I heard sirens approaching as we stepped back outside. I called Claire. This scoop would earn me a few points.

  CHAPTER 58

  THURSDAY 3:50 P.M.

  BRIAN HAD FOUND THE PHONE EXACTLY WHERE THE MAN SAID HE would. It chirped its electronic ring tone before he could even rip it from the envelope. The man gave Brian directions to a “safe house.” His words. Brian balked, unsure. Maybe it was a trap.

  “If I’d wanted to take you down, I could have done it weeks ago. I’m on your side.”

  Brian couldn’t deny that, so he did as he was told and now stood on the front porch of a nondescript house a couple of blocks off Bob Wallace. He ran his fingers along the top of the door frame and found the key, as the caller said he would. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. Small but neat, it smelled a little musty, but not bad. Better than his apartment. He looked through each room—living area, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bath. Beer in the fridge. He grabbed one, popped the tab, and took several gulps. That was better.

  The cell phone rang. He answered.

  “Did you put your car in the garage?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s dead. You can’t drive it anymore. The cops are looking for it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Same way I know everything else. Check the top drawer in the bedroom dresser. I got you some more black pants and shirts, and some fresh gloves.”

  “You think of everything, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. How was your meeting with Dr. Hublein today?”

  “Fine.”

  “So you don’t mind being off the medication?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Let’s just say I have access.”

  “What do you want? Money? I don’t have any money.”

  “I don’t need your money. I simply want to help. Is that so hard to understand?”

  Why was everyone trying to help him? Hublein? That smart-ass ER doctor? This guy? Why didn’t they all just go fuck themselves? But … if he could get the drug. “Maybe.”

  “After all I’ve done for you, you still doubt me?”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “Haven’t I given you what you need? Cleared the path, so to speak?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now I’m going to help you again.”

  “With what?”

  “McCurdy.”

  “And Hublein. I want him, too.”

  The man laughed softly. “I wondered when you were going to get around to that.”

  “If I don’t get him and that Walker dude, this is done. I’ll walk away.”

  “You can’t. You need the drug, and I’m the only one who can get it for you.”

  Was he lying? How could he get the drug? Who the hell was he? “When?”

  “Tomorrow. Don’t you get your injection every Friday?”

  How did he know that? “Yeah.”

  “Relax, Brian. Everything’s okay. Take McCurdy, and then I’ll arrange everything else.”

  Brian thought about it for a second. He did want McCurdy. He wanted Hublein and Dub Walker more. But … if he could have them all.

  “Brian? You still with me?”

  “I’m here.”

  “We’ll have to do this one a little differently, so listen carefully. First, don’t use this phone for anything except to answer my calls. Clear?”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s the way it is. Keep it with you at all times. Second, take a peek out the living room window.”

  Brian pulled back the curtain and looked out toward the street.

  “See the car across the street? The gray one?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the one you’ll use. Keys are in the ashtray. No speeding and no joyriding. It’s stolen. I switched the plates, but if you get pulled over, the jig is up. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do exactly as I tell you. Tonight …”

  Brian’s head throbbed. “Tonight? I’m exhausted.”

  “Yes, tonight. It must be tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the old demon is beginning to chew on you already, isn’t it?”

  It was true. He could feel it simmering inside. Seemed like it never let up now. Always churning. The caller was right. He couldn’t wait. “You know it is.”

  “Tonight. After ten. Go to the new strip center. The one on Old Highway 431 near Hampton Cove. Where the Italian restaurant is. You know the one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Behind the center are three Dumpsters. An envelope will be taped to the back of the one nearest the east end. You won’t need anything but your gun.”

  “What about the surprise you mentioned earlier?”

  “After McCurdy. You’ll love it. A little reward for all your hard work.”

  CHAPTER 59

  THURSDAY 6:52 P.M.

  SAMMY’S WAS CHAOS.

  During the week, Sammy went for the more sedate blues of Colin Dogget, but when the wee
kend rolled around—and Thursday night was considered the kickoff—Sammy brought in more lively entertainment. Bumped up alcohol sales.

  Tonight, Jake’s Blues Project, a three-piece electric blues band. I’d seen them a couple of times. Fairly new group out of Meridian, Mississippi.

  Claire sat at the bar, wineglass in hand, chatting with Sammy. She lifted her purse off the stool she had saved for me, and I sat down. Sammy poured a double shot of Blanton’s bourbon and slid the glass toward me. I took a deep pull.

  “I imagine you need that about now,” Claire said.

  Another slug. “You can bet on it. How’d your report go?”

  “Great.” She tilted her wineglass toward me. “Thanks to you.”

  “You owe me.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” She ran her hand along my thigh.

  I laid my hand on hers and gave it a squeeze. “I’m liking where this is going.”

  Sammy leaned on the bar. “This Kurtz guy the killer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And now he’s on the run,” Claire said. When I nodded she said, “Glad I’m staying with you.”

  Sammy raised an eyebrow.

  “Not a word,” I said.

  He looked at Claire. His eyebrows gave a couple of bounces. “If you’d rather stay with me, I’ve got the room.”

  Claire laughed and poked a finger in my ribs. “If Dub doesn’t behave himself, I just might take you up on that.”

  “Me? You started it.”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see T-Tommy. I told Sammy that we were going out on the patio where we could hear each other talk.

  Sammy said he’d send out some pulled-pork sandwiches, adding, “Willie’s pushing those tonight. Says it’s the best batch he’s made in a while.” He swiped the bar. “‘Course, he says that pretty near every day.”

  The patio had about two dozen tables. Half were occupied, most people inside taking in the music. We grabbed a three-top along the rail at the far end, away from the other people. Lisa, a waitress who had been with Sammy for years, brought Claire and me a second round, even though I was still working on the first one. She handed T-Tommy a Corona, saying she would have our food up in no time.

  “Anything on Kurtz?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Guys are still working his place. No weapon. Took the computer and the techs are digging into it now.” He knocked back a slug of beer. “I called Wanda Fisher in case he showed up there. Put a couple of guys on her place. She could be a target after firing him.”

  “Anyone he called could be, too.”

  T-Tommy nodded, adjusted his gut, and said, “Yeah, but that’s a long list.” He looked at Claire. “Good job with your report tonight. Getting his picture out there gives us extra eyes.”

  “Let’s hope something turns up soon. Before—” Claire stopped as Lisa walked up carrying a tray of food.

  “Here you go.” She placed our plates on the table. “Anything else?”

  “Not right now, Lisa,” I said.

  “I’ll check on you later. Enjoy.” She headed back inside.

  T-Tommy looked at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Dub. How long’ve we known each other? I know when something’s eatin’ you. What is it?”

  I drained the last of my first drink and took a sip of the second. “I’ve been back over everything … in my head … seems like a thousand times. Keeps circling back to the same place.”

  “And that would be?”

  “There just might be two of them.”

  “You sure?” Claire asked.

  “No matter how I figure it, that’s where it lands. The guy on the phone doesn’t mesh with the crime scenes. One is rational, the other an over-the-top psycho. Toss in the two sets of shoe prints and the geographic spread of the scenes, and it smells like a tandem deal.”

  “But?” T-Tommy said.

  I took a bite of my sandwich and spoke around it. “This Kurtz guy seems too insane to play well with others. Look at the victims. At what he did to his neighbors. How could anyone trust him? Go into a dicey situation with someone who could go sideways in a heartbeat?”

  “Maybe they’re both insane,” Claire said.

  I shook my head. “Not the guy on the phone.”

  “What about another Manson situation?” she asked.

  “You mean one guy sends the other out to kill, like Charlie did with Watson, Atkins, and the others?”

  She nodded. “It’s possible.”

  I thought about that for a minute. Could Kurtz simply be a killing machine that was wound up and turned loose on the public? If so, why would he go after people he had called? People who could be traced back to him? “It’s possible, I guess.” I exhaled a long breath. “Scary scenario.”

  “This whole deal is scary,” Claire said. “The entire city is locked down at night. He’s even run me out of my own home.”

  “That’s the only good thing to come out of this.”

  She smiled. “You just might not get lucky again.”

  “With my charm?”

  “Get real.”

  “Besides, you owe me.”

  “Maybe I’ll get you a tie or something.”

  “Funny.”

  We ate quietly for a minute, and then I said to T-Tommy, “That Hublein guy … I got the sense that he was covering something.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” T-Tommy asked. “He’s his doctor. Got him on some oddball, newfangled drug. Kurtz beats the hell out of some guy, and then we waltz in asking questions. Tell him we’re investigating the worst series of murders in Madison County since Packwood. He sees lawsuit.” T-Tommy shrugged. “Makes sense to me.”

  Made sense to me, too. Almost.

  CHAPTER 60

  THURSDAY 10:39 P.M.

  AN HOUR EARLIER, WE HAD SAID OUR GOOD-BYES TO T-TOMMY IN SAM my’s parking lot, and I followed Claire back to my place. While she unpacked her bag—she had decided to bring over some work clothes so she wouldn’t have to go by her house again—I opened a bottle of Sapphire Hills Syrah, grabbed two glasses and my guitar, and moved out on the deck. A slight breeze had kicked up, and the night had begun to cool.

  Now I sat in a chair on my deck and fingered the fret board of my Martin D-18 through several turnarounds. I was trying to find the right one, an attempt to smooth out the edges of the song I’d been tinkering with for the past month. I kept the rhythm with my bare heel on the hardwood deck. I found that, besides being my favorite way to unwind, sitting with my guitar cleared my thinking. Like the twelve bars of the blues, things often fell into place.

  Claire stretched out on a chaise, blanket up to her chin. I think I was keeping her awake.

  As I picked and strummed, I thought about doodlebugs. Ugly, caterpillar-like creatures with pincer mouths. Lived in small, round holes in sandy soil throughout the South. As a kid, I had passed many a summer afternoon trying to tease them to the surface. The key was to snap off a stalk of fresh green grass, dribble a bit of spit on the end, and then ease the shaft into the hole. Soon the doodlebug would begin gnawing on it. You could feel its pincers working if you held the grass lightly. Then, timing and luck came into play. If the creature chomped down and if you yanked the grass just right, out he’d fly.

  That’s what I felt like we had been doing. The TV interviews, the phone calls, everything was supposed to yank the killer out into the open. Like this morning at Claire’s. But just as he popped into view, he burrowed back underground again.

  I put the guitar down, stood, and walked to the edge of my property. I scrunched the grass with my toes. Nothing on earth felt like that. I looked out over the sleeping city. Only the stream of cars that moved along Memorial Parkway indicated that anyone was awake.

  Kurtz was. I was sure of that.

  Maybe looking for a new hidey-hole. Like a doodlebug. Maybe seeking out his next target. Maybe he already had one and was simply sitting and watching. Relishing what was to come. Ma
ybe he was at this very moment creating his own special brand of havoc inside one of the thousands of homes I could see.

  Yet here I stood. Powerless to do anything about it.

  The fact that his murders were coming more frequently and his scenes were growing more violent meant that he was on the verge of cracking. Near full rage. Near going over the falls. A very dangerous phase.

  And the other guy? Was there another guy? I didn’t want to believe there was, but that possibility kept eating at me. If he had a rational controller, this could get really ugly. Crazies make mistakes. Walk into traps. Don’t plan well and get caught. Or get killed in a shoot-out. But … if someone was pulling Kurtz’s strings, that changed the equation. Kurtz could be confined until his special skills were needed.

  I felt Claire come up behind me. She snaked her arms around my waist and pressed her cheek against my back. “You okay?”

  “Hublein lied,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  I turned toward her. “There’s more to this than he admitted.”

  “He couldn’t tell you everything. There are rules about that. Patient privacy. You know that.”

  “The key to all this is in his office.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Think about it. Kurtz is completely out of control. Hublein has to know that.”

  “How?”

  “He’s his doctor. Sees him every week. No way this level of insanity could get by him.” She looked at me but said nothing. “Kurtz is on some new drug. Still-in-trials type of drug. His behavior could be from a toxic reaction.”

  “You’re thinking this drug could be responsible for all this?”

  “Why do people do violent things?”

  “They’re crazy. They’re mean. They’re sociopaths.”

  “Or they’re intoxicated by some drug. Crystal meth and cocaine are notorious for causing anger and rage. Even psychotic breaks.”

  “There’s no evidence that he’s doing either of those.”