by Mic Palmer
Jack took the question as rhetorical.
“You might say I was pathologically jittery. As a matter of fact I was beginning to find it difficult to even leave the house, but then Littman gave me some valium and told me to start taking regular walks, and believe it or not that was it. After just a few weeks, the pharmaceuticals were no longer necessary. I was going to parks, museums, movies, things I hadn’t done in years, but Littman wasn’t satisfied. He insisted that I keep exposing myself to different experiences, especially those I found difficult.”
“Like what?”
“Like travelling, especially flying, which I hated, but within just a few short years I had been to Russia, China, South Africa, Greenland, and much of South America, but still he wanted more, as if fearing what might happen if I didn’t keep moving. In any event, I started climbing mountains, jumping out of planes, driving racecars – you know I came in third in the Topeka 200, novice class II. I felt unstoppable. Nothing seemed beyond my reach, but then, for whatever reason, I started going backwards. Again, I was worrying, losing sleep, taking pills.”
“What happened?”
“Simply put, I had reached the limit of conventional treatment. The petty thrill seeking, the idiotic challenges, the artificial stunts – they were fine for a while, but eventually I needed more, and that’s when it began. I can’t even remember how or when the thought first entered my mind, but suddenly I had killed, and you know what? I was terrified, but soon, as with everything else, I learned, I adapted, I got used to it.”
Jack tried to appear impressed. “That’s quite a story.”
“You make it sound as if it’s over, but that’s not how it works. Even now, after all I’ve accomplished, there’s a part of me that wants to go off and hide somewhere, but I won’t give into it. Instead, I keep pushing myself, coming up with new ideas, testing the bounds of human possibility.”
“Human possibility?”
“Liberating the life force, separating it from our feelings, our traditions, even our instincts.”
Jack pretended to sympathize. “I understand.”
“I don’t think you do. It requires strength, imagination, savagery. The more brutal my actions, the more stomach churning, the more unspeakable, the more I benefit, and yet just a few years ago these very same acts might have left me a quivering lump of jelly. Through sheer willpower, however, I’ve moved forward, overcome, become something everyone strives for.”
“And what’s that?”
“Why a fully actualized human being of course.”
Standing over him, dripping in blood, Pelletier appeared to want a pat on the back, and that’s when Jack realized he wasn’t getting out of there.
“Why the girl?” asked Jack. “Why did you keep her?”
A sly look came over Pelletier’s face. “Well even I need a little fun every now and then?”
“He’s a fraud,” Jack thought to himself, but he’s so crazy he doesn’t even know it.”
Clearly thinking of the girl, Pelletier looked down at his blood soaked hands.
“And what about the people in the other room?” inquired Jack. “Was she your wife?”
Pelletier’s expression became twisted. “We had lived together for five years, and then came the boy.”
Resigned to death, Jack risked setting him off. “He wasn’t yours?”
“That fucking bitch. She thought she could hide it from me, but suddenly the father showed up. He paid.”
“Why would you…” Jack’s eyes shifted toward the heads.
“It was the hardest thing I ever had to do, and every time I look at look into that room, it all comes back to me, but that’s just the point. That’s what keeps me strong.”
Just then Jack heard the voice of someone new. He spoke in a deep baritone. “You think you’re strong?” said the stranger. “You’re pathetic.”
Standing before the entrance to the wine room was an enormous man with a pock marked face.
Chapter Seventy-Two
Jack’s heart began to flutter. Suddenly, he had a chance, and again he was terrified. “You?”
“I see,” said Pelletier. “You have a confederate.”
“That’s not it at all,” responded the big fellow. “We’re just friends.”
“Friends?” uttered Jack.
“Of course,” said the behemoth. “As a matter of fact I’m seeing Susan tonight. I’ll tell her you said hello.”
“What?” exclaimed Jack. “You leave her the hell alone!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of her.”
Pelletier seemed perplexed. “Susan Barnet from the television? The one you approached with that cockamamie story about being framed?”
“It’s no story,” said the Russian.
“If you touch her, I’ll kill you,” said Jack.
“Is that any way to talk, when I’m here to rescue you?”
“So you’re the one?” smirked Pelletier.
“The one who made you,” responded the larger man.
“How?” said the merchant. “By boring people?”
The Russian appeared insulted. “Apparently you haven’t been paying attention. What got them interested was the kindness, the romance, the subtlety.”
“You must be insane. Without me they’d barely be paying attention.”
“I treat the women the way they should be – like queens. You’re just another run of the mill butcher.”
“It was the expensive carpets,” parried the merchant, “the Moroccans; that’s what did it; not the cheap shit you came up with.”
“As if anyone could tell the difference,” chuckled the Russian.
“Who left the snake?” argued Pelletier.
Smirking in condescension, the professor seemed completely relaxed. “A bit on the nose wouldn’t you say?
“It was inspired.”
“It was ridiculous. If anything got them talking, it was the flowers, and by the way – just in case you were wondering – they read the water lilies just right, cause if you’re not impotent, I don’t know who is.”
“How dare you!”
“As a matter of fact your use of the snake is making more and more sense.”
Appearing as though he could snap at any moment, Pelletier wiped the sweat from his brow. “Clearly, you have no idea of what you’re dealing with.”
Lying there on the floor in between the two madmen, Jack’s emotions were a perfect mixture of macabre bemusement and gut wrenching terror. Nevertheless, compared to his state of mind just moments before, he was absolutely blissful. Now at least he had a chance.
“Oh contraire,” bellowed the Russian, “I’ve seen your work, and running through it all is the fact that you’re nothing but a coward.”
A wad of drool fell from Pelletier’s large square quivering lower lip. “A coward? Are you insane? You know what kind of strength it requires to do what I do? Take a look in the other room. I’m a fuck’n savage!”
“And yet there you are, clutching the knife.”
“I’m going to carve you up like a pheasant.”
All at once they were upon one another, stepping back and forth over Jack’s head and torso as if they were dancing, but then Pelletier got his hand free and slashed big fellow’s arm. Bleeding terribly, the man who had gotten Jack fired grabbed the rug merchant’s hand and smashed it against the wall, until finally he dropped the knife.
In the interim Jack had managed to get to his feet, but before he could even hope to get away, he became entangled between the two, resulting in his being pushed back and forth like a dummy on a hinge.
“Ahhhh,” he yelled, as he drove his forehead into rug merchant’s nose. Pelletier stumbled backwards into the wall, thereby striking his head.
“Nice,” said the injured Russian, as Pelletier collapsed to the ground, but he wasn’t able to finish him off.
Although groggy, Pelletier dove for the knife, and upon retrieving it sat on the floor with his back against the wall
. “You want more?”
Covered in his own blood, the Russian put Jack over his shoulder and backed his way up the stairs and into the kitchen.
Jack didn’t know where to begin. “Why?”
The Russian’s response was to spin him around and wrap his good arm around his neck, thereby putting Jack to sleep.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Jack woke up with a pounding headache in the back seat of his car. Reaching for his temple, he noted that the bindings had been removed. Still in his undershirt and briefs, he turned toward the clock, at which point he was shocked to find that he had been out for nearly five hours, meaning that Pelletier had probably already bleached the place and disposed of his victim.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered, not having the faintest idea of what to do. Then he recalled Susan and what the professor had said about going to see her. What the hell did he mean? Did he really know where she was?
Then it came to him. Of course. How could he have been so stupid? The giant Russian had been following him all along, including when he dropped her off at her home.
Having wiped the blood from his face and arms with an old rag soaked in bottled water, he changed his shirt and located a payphone. Susan, however, wouldn’t pick up, and the answering machine had been turned off, probably because of all the publicity.
Perhaps she had relocated. Even so, she may have been trailed. Jack’s only option then was to contact her husband.
“Fifth precinct,” said the voice on the other end.
“Hello,” he practically shouted. “Let me speak with Phil Barnet.”
“Who’s this?”
“I’m a friend of his. It’s very important that I speak with him.”
“He’s not in. Try his cell.”
“I don’t have the number.”
“You say you’re a friend?”
“I lost my phone. Can you give me his number?”
“Are you kidding?”
“This is an emergency. I believe his wife’s in danger.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Jack Lorenz, ok, and if you would just listen to me, I think I can help you catch the actual killers.”
“You’re Jack Lorenz?”
“Yes.”
“The Jack Lorenz. The one we’ve been looking for?”
“Right – you must know that I know Phil.”
“Sure, but look Jack, or whoever you are, we’ve gotten ten calls today alone, all from guys claiming to be you…”
“Did they say they knew Phil and Susan? Could they tell you who introduced them or where we first met?”
“Yea, so could I, it’s all over the TV.”
“I can tell you things no one else would know.”
“Then I tell you what. Why don’t you come in? I’ll be glad to listen to you.”
There was a pause.
“I thought so.”
“If I come in and you don’t catch the other two, I’m screwed.”
The officer was practically yawning. “That’s the second time you’ve said that. Am I to understand there are not one but two killers.”
“That’s right.”
“And you know this how?”
“It’s a long story, but you got a pen.”
“Yea.”
“I want you to check out John Pelletier. P-E-L-L-E-T-I-E-R. He lives at ** Borden Road in Manhasset. His work address is *** 10th Avenue. As for the other guy, I can’t remember his name, but call my old boss, Carl Bullick, of C. Bullick Investigations. His number is (212) 564-22**. One of the killers is someone we investigated. Tell Bullick it’s the case that got me fired.”
Somewhat impressed by the detail, the officer wrote down what Jack had to say. “I got to admit, you’ve done your homework, but you really expect us to just search someone’s house based on an anonymous tip.”
“Just check it out, but first make sure you get in touch with Phil. I don’t know how, but I think one of killers knows where his wife is.”
“You mind telling me how?”
“There’s no time; just make sure he knows she’s in danger.”
“Is that it?”
Just then Jack recalled a phrase Phil would often use for people trying to be something other than what they were. “And when you speak to him, tell him pigs don’t fly,”
“Huh?”
“He’ll know what it means.”
“And how can I reach you, you know, just in case we need to follow up?”
“Nice try,” Jack commented before hanging up.
Although he was fairly certain that they wouldn’t get around to checking out Pelletier or the Russian for quite some time, if at all, he was hopeful that the man he spoke to would at the very least make Phil aware of what he had to say.
Even so, he felt obliged to pay a visit to Susan’s home, just in case he was ignored. Perhaps she was still there, but not picking up. In either event he needed to do his best to make sure that she was safe.
Chapter Seventy-Four
As his car chugged along the streets of Susan’s neighborhood, Jack finally came to the conclusion that it was for the best that he hadn’t turned himself in. Even if the police had surprised him and followed up on the leads he had given them, the odds were that they’d find nothing. Both killers, after all, knew what he knew, meaning that they’d have to be crazy not to attempt a little housecleaning.
Perhaps that’s why the Russian had put him to sleep – to give him some time to take care of the evidence.
“Be careful,” he told himself, as he slowly approached the house. Who knew where the police might be.
Still feeling a bit guilty for not turning himself in, he reminded himself that he didn’t even know whether Susan was actually in trouble. Was he really supposed to risk the death penalty for a comment made by a lunatic? For all Jack knew the Russian didn’t plan on seeing her at all, but just blurted it out for reasons too convoluted to even imagine. After all, he was nuts.
Scrutinizing the area for evidence of surveillance, Jack felt comfortable in the thought that the neighborhood was safe. There wasn’t a van or occupied car for blocks, and the windows of the adjacent houses appeared completely lacking in activity.
Most likely the police had been informed that Susan and Phil had left town, making it unnecessary to protect them. Then again Jack would keep his eyes open.
Having passed Susan’s home, he drove around the block and parked, at which point he observed a bulky looking woman walking a dog. Why were her clothes so thick? It wasn’t particularly cold out. Was she wearing a bullet proof vest?
Jack waited a moment with engine running, but seeing that it was a false alarm, put on his ski cap and reached for the key.
With the exception of a few patches of crabgrass and some broken shingles, the house was fairly well maintained. Clearly, however, it wasn’t the home of a serial killer: It appeared lived in, cozy, comfortable.
“I made it,” he thought to himself, having entered the side of the property. Now that he had some privacy, he carefully checked the windows and when he was satisfied that no one was there again got out his lock picking tools.
Bracing himself for a moment, Jack was happy to find no security system, but even so, owing to the similarity of the present moment to that when he entered Pelletier’s, he couldn’t help but imagine the faint but persistent shriek of a siren.
Once inside he began looking for something that might indicate where they had gone, an address book, note pad, calendar, but having searched every drawer in the house, was amazed at how little paper was used these days.
“They probably store all of their information on their cell phones,” he reflected. Nevertheless, he checked the landline, only to confirm what he had suspected. Nothing. Not even a list of ingoing or outgoing calls.
Walking through the place, he couldn’t help but imagine himself living there. With hard wood floors, a cheap throw rug, blue velvet couches, antique white walls, a hand carved coffee table, an
d shelves lined with Chinese pottery and other baubles, the living room certainly was not decorated by a man. As a matter of fact, there wasn’t a trace of masculine input; from the tiny television within the den to the frilly lamps within the master bedroom, the placed screamed of estrogen.
Jack checked out the closets, but all he could find were dresses, paint suits, bags and shoes, none of which were for men.
Additionally, there were no wedding photos, beers in the fridge, weights, or power tools. Clearly, Phil had moved out.
All at once Jack saw an opportunity. It was fate. They belonged with each other.
“Stop it, you idiot,” he quickly admonished. Idle thoughts such as these might very well mean the difference between life and death. “Focus!”
Seeing a phone number on the refrigerator, he quickly dialed, but all he got was a pizzeria. Damn. Next he rifled through the bills, hoping to find the address of a vacation property or time share, but again, nothing.
Thinking for a moment, he decided to check the garbage, but before he could get around to it he heard the sound of a car pulling up. Jack separated the lace curtains and peaked outside. It was Phil, with a suitcase in hand.
He had to think fast. “What the hell am I going to do?” he panicked. Initially, he considered reasoning with him, but that was nutty. You didn’t have to be a cop to understand the evidence.
While Jack might have been able to get away, he’d be right back where he started, not knowing if Susan were safe.
Maybe he could catch him off guard, subdue him, get him to talk, but Phil was like a rock. With his seventeen inch neck and hypertrophic chest, he had the look of a wrestler, even while he had aged a bit. His once taught face appeared drawn and puffy and his jet black hair had a shock of grey running through it. Judging from the bags under his eyes, he hadn’t been sleeping, but that could work to his advantage. He seemed wound up, irritable, edgy.
“Shit,” Jack murmured. Frantically scanning his surroundings, he picked up a vase, but soon thought better of it. He just wanted to incapacitate the man, not kill him. What he needed was something to take out his legs, like a bat or a golf club, but there was none to be found. Then he spotted a rather substantial looking curtain rod running above the French doors. Pulling it from the brackets, he shook off the fabric and positioned himself to the side of the entrance.