by D P Lyle
“So, the drug might have nothing to do with this?”
“Maybe not.” I saw a copy machine in the corner. “Why don’t you copy this while I sniff around a little more.”
“That guy we saw might still be around.”
“Then hurry.”
I heard the copier come on and begin its warm-up sequence as I thumbed through the other files. The first folder was labeled “Project Summary.” I took it to Claire. “This one, too.”
I then selected a file at random. Ronald Newsome. I read through it and then pulled out another one. Benjamin Hecht. A third. Thomas Wilkins. The names changed, but the story was the same. All had had problems with PTSD, and all were doing well on the drug.
Another thing I hated was when things weren’t as I wanted them to be. I wanted to find something out of bounds. Something that would explain Kurtz’s obvious psychosis. If what he had done wasn’t due to a drug, then it meant he was just evil. That was even scarier.
After Claire copied everything, I put the files back in place, and we left the file room. Left the building. Left the neighborhood.
CHAPTER 63
FRIDAY l:34 A.M.
I WAS WRAPPED IN A DREAM, THE DREAM, THE ONE THAT CAME EVERY night now. Jill struggling to survive. Me failing her. The phone rang, jerking me to wakefulness. Claire rolled toward me, rubbing one eye with the heel of her hand.
I snatched up the phone. “Hello.”
“I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“What do you want?” I swung my legs off the bed and sat up.
He laughed softly. “Please, call me Brian. After all, we’re on a first name basis now, aren’t we?”
Time to roll the dice. Take another shot at rattling this guy. “You’re not Kurtz.”
“Really?”
“You’re Kurtz’s scout, lookout, controller … whatever you are … but you’re not him.”
Nothing for a moment, and then he said, “Believe what you wish.” He laughed softly. “I have something you should hear. It might change your mind.”
“What might that be?”
“It’s a classic. You’ll love it. You guys listening in will want your tapes rolling.”
I heard the click and hiss of a tape recorder, then:
“Oh, God, no.”
A woman’s voice, shrieking, terror-filled.
“Shut up.”
A man’s voice, muffled, away from the recorder.
“Tell my friend what you see.”
“My husband, his … his … head is … gone. Help me.”
“Look at your husband. See what happens to assholes.”
“Why? Oh, God, why?” The woman’s voice was frantic, stretched to the breaking point.
“Because he’s an arrogant fuck.”
The woman sobbed, whimpered, mumbled something I couldn’t make out. Then the distinct sound of her retching. “Please.”
“Shut up.” The killer’s voice was high-pitched, angry. His demon had taken over. Mr. Hyde was out. My fingers ached from the death grip I had on the phone.
“Please, don’t hurt my baby. I’m pregnant.”
“Shut up.” The man’s voice as much a shriek as hers now.
“I’ll do anything. Just don’t hurt my baby. Anything. I won’t tell the police. Please.”
The sharp crack-thud startled me even though I realized I had expected it. It’s what he did, what he needed. The woman screamed, over and over as the blows fell hard against her.
“Leave her alone,” I screamed into the phone. Claire was now bolt upright, eyes wide.
The blows and screams continued, the latter weakening second by second. I flinched with each impact as if I was being struck myself. I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to listen, unable not to, each blow pushing tears through my tightly closed lids. The screams became whimpers, the whimpers groans and moans, until she fell silent and only sickening thuds could be heard. Then they, too, stopped.
I heard the recorder click off. The calm voice returned. “See. I told you it was a classic.”
Stay calm. Keep pressing. “That wasn’t you. That was Kurtz.”
“Then how did I get this recording?”
“You were there.”
“Yes, I was. Alone. Well, the only one alive, anyway.” He laughed again.
“You’re a sick motherfucker.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But there’s nothing you can do it about it. You couldn’t save these people. Just like you couldn’t save your sister. Jill, wasn’t it?”
Heat rose in my chest, and my throat constricted. Don’t let him do this. Think. Absolutely nothing entered my mind. Except for Jill’s face.
“What’s the matter? Your gift of gab’s abandoned you?”
“You don’t know …”
“I could debate what I know and what I don’t know all night, but I have more work to do. A very special gift just for you. Talk to you soon.”
The line went dead. I dropped the phone in its cradle, and my eyes met Claire’s. I pulled her to me, and neither of us spoke for a minute. I just needed to hold her.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” she asked finally.
“He beat her to death.” I lifted my head from her shoulder and looked into her eyes. “She was pregnant.”
“My God.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled raggedly. “It’s my fault.”
“Don’t say that. That’s not true.”
“I baited him, drove him to do this.” Tears slid down my cheeks.
Claire kissed them away. “You didn’t make him crazy or evil or whatever the hell he is. He did this. Not you.”
I wiped my eyes with the bedsheet. “I better call T-Tommy.” I reached for the phone, dialed, and when T-Tommy answered I said, “He wasn’t lying.”
“How bad is it?”
“He killed the man and then tortured the woman. He taped the whole thing.”
T-Tommy said nothing, but I could hear his heavy breathing.
“She was pregnant,” I said.
“Jesus Christ. This guy has no brakes.”
“He’s over the edge. Hyde’s winning. Wait until you hear the tape. While he was … in action … his voice was … psychotic. High-pitched. Enraged. Not the cold, calm voice of the guy who calls.”
“So you’re thinking he does have a partner in this?”
“I don’t know what to think. He said he was Kurtz. I believe he was lying.” I massaged my neck. “It’s just hard for me to put the two voices in one person, and yet it’s just as hard to imagine this guy with a partner. He’s barely hanging on to his sanity. All I know for sure is that we have to get him. Soon.”
“We’ve got everybody on it. Luther pulled guys off just about everything else. I’ll find out where the call came from and send some patrols through the area. We might get lucky.”
“He said he wasn’t finished. Said he has a surprise for me. Maybe he plans to come here.”
“I’ll put a surveillance team on your block.”
“He might spot them.”
“Or we just might trap him.”
“Let’s hope.”
I hung up and grabbed my .357 from the nightstand. I walked through the house, checking the doors and windows, peering into the outside darkness. Satisfied, I returned to bed, slipped the gun beneath my pillow, and pulled Claire to me. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Are you okay?”
“Not even close.”
CHAPTER 64
FRIDAY 1:56 A.M.
“WANT ME TO LOCK UP?” LISA ASKED.
“I’ll do it. You get on home.” Sammy Lange dunked the last four dirty glasses in the rinse water and aligned them with their mates on the bar.
“See you tomorrow.” She waved on the way out the door.
Sammy stood at the front door and watched until Lisa was safely in her car and drove away. He locked the front door, flipped on the neon CLOSED sign, and turned off most of the interior lights. He counted the cash in th
e register and zipped it in the bank pouch for deposit in the morning. Twenty-two hundred plus credit card receipts. Not a bad night.
He pulled on his Windbreaker and stuffed the bank pouch in one pocket. After locking the back door, he dragged two trash bags to the bin at the side of the building and tossed them in. As he turned, he detected movement in the corner of his eye and by reflex raised his left arm. That deflected the first blow. Not the second. It collided with the right side of his face.
He wavered but somehow kept his balance. A blow to his left temple followed. Bright lights and a searing pain flashed behind his eyes. He staggered, clawed the air for support, and managed to grasp the assailant’s arm before he wobbled and fell to his knees. He pulled it to him and bit down, hard. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.
The attacker screamed and jerked away. Another blow, this one to his face. Sammy felt his muscles sag, no longer following commands. In slow motion he fell forward until his face kissed the asphalt. Rolling to one side, he looked up at the hulk above him. He couldn’t see his face in the dim light, but felt the impacts as the attacker repeatedly kicked his ribs and stomach. Waves of nausea cascaded over him.
The hulk spoke. “This is a message for your buddy Dub Walker. Tell him I said hello.”
Sammy started to speak, but a foot slammed into his jaw. The world spun in multicolors, faded to monochromatic gray, and consciousness slipped from his grasp. During his descent, he heard voices, shouting voices, but could not understand what they were saying. The voices, the hulk, the world faded to black.
Brian slammed his foot on the accelerator and held it down until he reached seventy miles per hour.
Don’t be stupid.
He eased off, slowing to forty. His arm ached and blood soaked through the T-shirt he had wrapped around the wound. He tugged it more tightly.
How could he be so stupid? Let that old relic get the better of him? Well, not really the better of him, but he did do damage. He balled and relaxed his fist, then rotated his forearm. At least everything worked.
Goddamn it!
Harold Pearce slouched in his car, peering over the steering wheel. He had watched the entire scene unfold. Kurtz’s attack. The old man fighting back. The car that pulled into the lot and stopped next to another car. Except for the old man’s truck, the only one left in the side lot. Two couples climbed out and laughed and talked. Obviously intoxicated, it appeared that one couple had left their car here while partying elsewhere and had now returned to claim it.
The fight attracted their attention, and the two men ran in that direction, shouting. Kurtz ran behind the building and disappeared into the night. Pearce knew he was headed toward his car, parked a block away.
In minutes, the police and paramedics arrived. After the medics did their thing, they loaded the old man into the ambulance and drove away. The two couples told the deputies what had happened. One officer scribbled on his pad, but appeared bored with the entire situation. Soon, the cops and the Good Samaritans left, and the lot became quiet again.
Pearce flipped open the secure cell phone and called Smithson. He told him about the McCurdys, the tape he had played for Dub Walker, and the assault on Sammy.
“Perfect,” Smithson said. “We’re nearing the finish line. When will you play the final card?”
“Tonight. It’s almost set.”
CHAPTER 65
FRIDAY 8:08 A.M.
I SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, DRINKING A SECOND CUP OF COFFEE, while Claire finished her share of the eggs and bacon I had made. On the deck, Kramden and Norton squabbled over the bowl of corn Claire had set out for them. I think they were warming to her. Of course, they warmed to anyone who fed them.
“Are we going to dig into the files today?” she asked.
Last night after we got home, I thumbed through the stuff we had lifted from Hublein’s office, but was too tired to concentrate. “Yeah.” I carried my plate to the kitchen and began to wash it in the sink. “This morning I called Drew Miller, an old med school classmate of mine. He’s a researcher at the NIH. If anyone can find out about this drug, Drew can. He’s sniffing around. Said he’d get back when he had something.”
Claire joined me at the sink. I took her plate and washed it. She poured herself a cup of coffee. “Want more?” she asked.
“Sure.”
She topped off my cup and then sat at the table again. I grabbed the stack of files and joined her. I went through Kurtz’s file first and then moved to the summary folder.
“They’ll call soon, won’t they?” she asked. “About last night?”
I nodded. “Someone’ll discover the bodies, and the whole madness will begin. This is one crime scene I’d rather not see. I heard enough last night.”
I read through the list of the twenty-five people in the study, including their addresses and other demographics. “Look at this.” I turned the page so she could see it. “The names.”
I ran a finger down the row. Brian Kurtz.
She nodded. “We knew that.”
I continued down the page. Martin Hankins. “This guy killed his entire family. Out near Owens Crossroads.”
“I remember that story. He had PTSD.” She looked at me. “Two people in Hublein’s study have committed violent murders?”
“It gets better.” Further down. Gregory Hay. “The dude who shot up the mall the other day.” Further still. Robert Swenson. “This charming soul beat his girlfriend to death with a tire iron and is on the run right now.”
“Four? Four guys in this study have murdered someone?” She turned the page toward her. “This defies all odds. Hublein and his drug are in this up to their eyeballs.”
“Looks that way.”
“Could this guy … this Swenson character … be Brian Kurtz’s partner in all this?”
I looked at her.
“I mean, Hankins and Hay are dead. Swenson’s not. Is it possible he’s the guy on the phone?”
Could that be true? Swenson and Kurtz partners in crime? Both were in the same study, on the same drug. Both had committed violent murder. Both were on the run.
The phone rang.
“And so it begins.” I lifted the receiver. “Hello.”
“Dub Walker?”
It wasn’t T-Tommy as I had expected. “Yes.”
“I’m Dr. Sullivan. Do you know Mr. Sammy Lange?”
“Yes. What’s this about?”
“He’s here at Memorial Medical Center. In the ICU.” “What happened?” “He was mugged.”
“What? When?”
“Last night. Outside his restaurant.”
“Why wasn’t I called earlier?”
“He was in and out of consciousness and very confused most of the night. Finally cleared his head about a half hour ago and asked that I call you.”
“Is he okay?”
“Banged up, but he should do fine.”
“I’ll be right there.” I hung up the phone. “Let’s go, Sammy’s in the hospital.”
Thirty minutes later, a nurse ushered us to Sammy’s bedside. His face was swollen and purple, his left eye a narrow slit in a black goose egg. Dark, blood-crusted stitches formed a line along his puffy lower lip.
“Thanks for coming,” Sammy said. “You, too, Claire.” He offered her a half smile. “You’re a sight for sore eyes … no pun intended.”
She smiled and shook her head. “I see your sense of humor’s intact.”
“That looks like it hurts a bit,” I said.
“Been better, but they tell me I’ll live.”
“What happened?”
“Somebody jumped me out back of the bar. Big guy. I think he would’ve killed me if some people hadn’t come by and scared him off. I don’t remember much.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
“Strong’s about all I can say for sure. Never saw his face. Too dark. Seemed to have short hair, squarish head. I’d guess six-one or-two.” He looked at me. “He’s the guy you’re looking for
.”
“Kurtz? I thought you didn’t get a good look at him?”
“Didn’t. But while he was kicking the shit out of me, he mentioned your name.”
Everything came into focus. Kurtz, or whoever had called, had mentioned a surprise, and this was it. Which meant he knew Sammy and I were friends, knew Sammy’s routine.
“At least he didn’t rob me,” Sammy said. “I had twenty-two hundred bucks in my pocket, and they tell me it was still there. Maybe he didn’t have time.” Sammy winced and clutched his side.
“What’s the matter?” Claire asked.
“Broke a couple of ribs. Hurts like a bitch. The doctors tell me I’ve got a cracked bone beneath the left eye and a bruised lung. Also peed a little blood.”
“Doesn’t sound like you’re okay to me,” she said.
“Bruises and cracks, nothing more sinister.”
“I’m sorry, Sammy,” I said. “I never suspected you might get dragged into this.”
“Not your fault that the world’s full of lunatics. I was unlucky. So was he. I took a pretty good bite out of his arm.”
“You did?” I asked. “Which one?”
“Left. I think.”
The nurse returned. “I’ll have to ask you to leave now. The tech is here to do an EEG, then he needs to rest.”
“Dub,” Sammy said with concern in his eyes. “Be careful. This is one bad dude.”
“I know.”
“Anything I can do for you?” Claire asked.
“A sponge bath would be nice.”
“He didn’t beat the smart-ass out of you, either.”
“It’d take more than this,” Sammy laughed and then winced and grabbed his ribs.
On the way out, we stopped at the nurses’ station, where one of the nurses looked up from the chart she held. “Can I help you?”
She had dark hair, showing a few streaks of silver. A blue name tag attached to the pocket of her crisp white uniform indicated she was “B. Hawkins, RN, Charge Nurse.”
“I’m Dub Walker, a friend of Mr. Lange’s. If any change in his condition occurs, could you contact me?”