The Coldest Fear

by Rick Reed

  Jack heard Liddell chuckling. “What are you so happy about?” he asked his partner, unable to take his eyes off the road ahead.

  “I’ve always wanted to do that,” Liddell said.

  Back at police headquarters, Angelina Garcia was putting through a telephone call to Judge Abner Hudgins’s office at the Circuit Court in Gallatin County. The phone rang only once before a woman’s voice came on the line.

  “Gallatin County Circuit Court. Judge Hudgins’s Office. May I help you?”

  “Yes. This is Angelina Garcia with the Evansville Police Department. Who am I speaking with?”

  “You’re the computer lady with those two detectives?” the voice said, not quite a question.

  “Yes, ma’am. Can I have your name, please?” Garcia asked again. She hoped she wouldn’t have to drag every piece of information from the woman. She knew what little Captain Franklin had been able to tell her about Jack and Liddell’s hasty departure from Arnold Byrum’s house, and an idea had occurred to her. She wanted to check it out before she said anything to the captain.

  Ten minutes and a very sore ear later, she was off the phone and waiting by the fax machine. Though her voice sounded young, Alice Drummond had been secretary to Judge Abner Hudgins for almost forty years. During that time she had kept all of his records, made his appointments, picked up his dry cleaning, and knew where all the skeletons were hidden. Angelina was excited about the information that would soon be coming over the ancient fax machine. She was pleased with herself that she had found information that Jack and Liddell had missed on their visit to the courthouse. But she didn’t blame them too badly. After all, they were men and didn’t know that if you want the real scoop, you should always ask the secretary.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  Indiana State Highway 62 crested a hill just before it turned into Illinois 141 at New Haven, Illinois. Liddell had the phone crammed into his ear to try and hear the captain over the noise of the road and the high-powered engine that Jack was torturing to death.

  “Yes, sir. We’ll keep you informed as soon as we get something,” Liddell said, and put the phone away.

  He turned to Jack and said, “We should be meeting Detective Zimmer in a mile or so.”

  Liddell had filled the captain in on the pertinent parts of the manuscript they had taken from Arnold’s house, and had received permission to proceed with their trip. Not that Jack would have turned back even if the captain said to call it off.

  “Captain Franklin has been on the phone with the Illinois State Police and they have promised full cooperation,” Liddell said.

  Jack saw a sharp curve coming up and slowed. “Has anyone been able to raise JJ on his radio?”

  “Chief Johnson said he has been trying to find him since this morning,” Liddell answered. “Not a peep, and none of the county or state officers have seen or heard from him. The chief said he is seeing a girl over in Kentucky, just across the river. The chief went by there but didn’t see JJ’s car.”

  “Did you get an address for her?” Jack asked.

  Liddell looked at the notebook propped on one huge leg. “Her name’s Eunice and she lives in a little town called The Rocks, Kentucky. It’s about five miles on the other side of the Wabash River. I have the address, but I’ll have to get directions if you want to go there.”

  Jack slowed for another sharp curve. “Let’s see if Detective Zimmer can get us there,” he said.

  Liddell shook his head. “How hard can it be to find a police car that looks like an Indy Five Hundred pace car?”

  Lieutenant JJ Johnson was testing the limits of his Firebird and finding that it was built for looks, not stamina. He could feel the steering getting sloppy. The hundred-plusmiles-per-hour speeds were taking a toll on his unsteady nerves.

  Just as the SUV closed on his rear bumper, the road straightened out and JJ floored the big engine. He pulled away from the SUV slower than he would have believed was possible. What the hell has he got in that thing? JJ wondered. Just then he heard a loud pop, and smoke poured out from under his hood.

  “Jack,” Detective Zimmer said into the phone, “your captain filled me in, but what makes you think the killer’s target is Lieutenant Johnson?”

  Jack had slowed to a manageable speed now that he was within a few miles of Shawneetown. Detective Zimmer advised that he had driven the stretch of road that Jack was currently on and there was no sign of JJ. Instead of waiting for Jack and Liddell to arrive in town, he had gone to JJ’s trailer. He had found nothing and JJ didn’t have neighbors, so there was no one for him to ask about JJ’s whereabouts. He was now on his way to Jon Samuels’s old apartment to eliminate it from the list of places to search.

  “I wondered if you could direct us to a place just the other side of the Wabash River called The Rocks?” Jack asked.

  “You talking about Eunice Fetcho’s place?”

  Jack looked at Liddell and motioned for the notebook. Liddell held it up for him to read. “You know JJ’s girlfriend ?” Jack asked.

  “Ha. That’s a good one,” Zimmer said. “She’s not anyone’s girlfriend, Jack. She’s a police groupie. Her nickname is Eunice on the Rocks.”

  “Can you give us directions to her place?” Jack asked.

  Minutes later they were following the black unmarked vehicle of Detective Zimmer as he wound he way through Old Shawneetown and past the restaurant owned by Chief Johnson.

  Liddell nudged Jack as they drove past the restaurant and pointed out the marked unit on the curb. Apparently Chief Johnson wasn’t looking too hard for his nephew. “Think we should stop and see what the chief has found out?” Liddell asked.

  Jack didn’t really give a rat’s ass about the chief. “Too bad the killer isn’t going after his lard-butt.”

  They followed Zimmer down Garfield Street in Old Shawneetown until it turned into Route 56 at the bridge where it crossed into Kentucky. On the bridge Zimmer picked up speed and soon they were cruising southeast down a road that cut through farm fields thick with dry cornstalks.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  Lieutenant JJ Johnson of the Shawneetown Police Department had done everything possible to lose his pursuer, but now his engine was smoking and he was losing power. Soon he knew he would have no choice but to pull over and then he would be dead.

  There was another popping sound. A thick black cloud of smoke belched out from under his hood and restricted his view through the windshield. The car lost power and slowed. But that didn’t stop the SUV from executing a perfect maneuver that would put JJ out of action.

  Cody stood on the gas pedal for most of the pursuit, gambling that the policeman wouldn’t call for help. But he had given up hope of catching the faster Firebird when they hit the straightaway on Kentucky 56 going northwest toward Shawneetown. In another five miles he would be unable to stop JJ from drawing attention that Cody wanted to avoid.

  And then, as if fate had interceded on his behalf, smoke billowed from underneath the Firebird and then blew like a smudge pot with such a thick black cloud that Cody had to back off.

  He eased back a few feet and noticed that the Firebird was slowing. Seeing his chance, Cody pulled into the left lane, close to the center line, and lined his right front bumper up with the left rear quarter-panel of the Firebird. Cody cut the wheel hard to the right and executed a perfect maneuver he had watched police perform countless times on television.

  The SUV pushed the car into a sideways spin at nearly seventy miles an hour. When the Firebird was perpendicular to the SUV, Cody stomped the gas and rammed the Firebird broadside, driving it down the road sideways.

  JJ barely had time to register that he had been struck when he was struck again and was now sliding sideways down the highway, his tires squealing. A new smell entered the passenger compartment from the burning rubber. The side air bag deployed, but it only served to blind JJ to what was coming. Then he was rolling, a sound like thunder in his ears, as the passenger compartment bent at odd angles t
oward and then away from his. The Firebird tumbled end over end across the road and off into a field.

  Cody slammed on his brakes and watched with fascination as the smoking Firebird lifted onto its side and then began a death roll across the tarmac. He came to a rest on the side of the road and watched as the body inside the vehicle was tossed around like a rag doll. The Firebird rolled at least a dozen times before bouncing into the field and then going end over end until it teetered on its front end and fell with a great thud onto its top, coming to rest a hundred feet off the roadway and tearing a jagged path through the brown cornstalks.

  Cody listened for a full minute until he was satisfied that no help was coming. He would have to hurry. The Firebird was still sending up a thick cloud of smoke and Cody didn’t want any company while he finished his work.

  He pulled on a thin pair of leather gloves, picked the bone axe up from the passenger seat next to him, and popped the back hatch of the SUV. He retrieved a small container of gasoline.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  Jack could see smoke in the distance and wondered what was burning. Then Detective Zimmer put his emergency lights and siren in operation and they were off and running toward the fire.

  It took about four minutes to cover the distance. As they came over the top of a hill they could see acres of dry cornfield burning, and in the center of the conflagration a flaming car lay upside down.

  “That’s JJ’s car,” Jack said, jumping from his car. He grabbed a fire extinguisher from the trunk and sprayed a path through the burning stalks.

  Zimmer came up beside him. “I’ve called fire and rescue,” he said, and deployed his own extinguisher in a sweeping motion as the two men moved forward to the burning vehicle.

  “I can see him,” Jack said.

  Ignoring the flames he reached into the wreck and pulled its driver away from the vehicle and onto the scorched ground. Detective Zimmer used the remains of his extinguisher to create a path away from the fire and onto the road. He then helped Jack drag the smoking body the rest of the way out of the fire.

  By the time the men reached the roadway they could hear sirens coming from both the east and the west. Jack looked down at the prone figure he had dragged out of the flames and thought that JJ—if it was JJ—was surely dead. No one could have lived through the inferno that had been made of the Firebird.

  The victim’s clothing was charred but looked almost silvery, and then Jack realized that he had wrapped himself in a fire blanket. A retching noise came from under the blanket. Lieutenant JJ Johnson threw the blanket open and gulped in lungs full of fresh air.

  JJ tried to get up, but Jack knelt and helped him into a sitting position as the sirens came closer. Liddell retrieved a blanket from the trunk of the car and put it around JJ, who was now shivering. Liddell looked at the man’s feet and knew they were beyond saving. The fire blanket had protected his upper body from most of the flames, but his boots had melted along with most of the flesh and muscles of his feet.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  At police headquarters Angelina, Captain Franklin and Agent Tunney were in the war room, reading through the files that Judge Hudgins’s secretary had faxed. They were excited. All the pieces of the puzzle were coming together.

  When Captain Franklin put the file down, Angelina asked, “How is Detective Jansen?” It wasn’t that she was really concerned for his health, because Jansen was an insufferable jerk, and he had hit on her a couple of times, but it was the polite thing to do.

  “He’ll live,” Franklin said. “Arnold might be another matter.”

  “Arnold was shot twice in the face and lived through it,” Tunney said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “One bullet entered his sinus cavity on the right side and went out the neck without any damage,” Franklin explained to Garcia, “but the other one must have nicked an artery or something and Arnold’s brain was oxygen deprived for quite some time. He’s in a coma and the doctors don’t expect him to be able to talk when—or if—he comes around.”

  “Did Jansen have an embedded news crew in his hospital room?” Garcia asked sarcastically, causing Franklin to laugh out loud.

  “Let’s put it this way,” Franklin said. “He thinks he caught the serial killer.”

  “Looks to me like Garcia will get the credit on this one,” Tunney said.

  Franklin looked at her seriously and said, “You did some great work on this, Angelina. What made you think of it?”

  She felt her face redden, although it was nice to be praised for her work. “I didn’t do much, Captain,” she said. “I just checked out some things that we had all talked about and got lucky. And Susan came up with some tidbits from her sources with the Illinois Welfare Department.”

  “Listen to her, Frank,” Captain Franklin said. “Brilliant, and modest.”

  “Well, Miss Garcia,” Frank Tunney said, “thanks to you I think we will be able to put a face and name on The Cleaver, and make it stick.”

  The telephone rang and Garcia picked up the receiver.

  “Angelina, this is Jack.”

  He sounded stressed, and she said, “Jack, is everything okay?”

  “I know who the killer is,” Jack said, and she could hear someone coughing in the background.

  “Jack, who is that? Is Bigfoot okay?” She felt a sudden heaviness in her chest.

  “Bigfoot is fine. We’re with Detective Zimmer in Kentucky. Lieutenant Johnson has been hurt badly and we’re assisting. But listen, I need you to dig up everything you can on Blake James. The news guy at Channel Six.”

  Garcia held the phone away from her face and stared at it. He’s psychic.

  “Jack, that’s what I was going to tell you. Blake James is really Cody Fenton Morse. He’s Cordelia’s brother.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  Jack told Liddell and Zimmer what Garcia had found.

  “Let me get this straight,” Zimmer said. “This Cody Morse guy came to Evansville just after a string of murders in Atlanta. And those murders were the suspected work of the guy the feds are calling The Cleaver?”

  Jack nodded.

  Zimmer said, “Then the same type of murders started in Evansville recently and that’s what brought Special Agent Tunney to our neighborhood? And now you think that this Blake James, a Channel Six anchorman, is actually the serial killer known as The Cleaver. AND”—he drew the word out before continuing—“you think he is the one that just tried to toast Lieutenant Johnson?”

  Jack and Liddell looked at each other and both nodded.

  Zimmer put his hands in his pockets and said, “Okay. Sounds good to me. So how do we catch him?”

  They were all looking at the ground, until Jack said, “I have an idea.”

  Claudine Setera couldn’t believe her ears when Elliott Turner, the station manager at Channel Six, called her into his office.

  “Look, Elliott, about the remarks I made last time—” she began.

  “Shut up,” he said. “If you were in trouble the station attorney would be here. As you can see, we’re alone.”

  It dawned on her that he was probably going to try to make her perform some disgusting sexual act in return for keeping her job. She was tired of men thinking that was the only thing she was good at. She was a fine journalist and if that was his idea, she would get an attorney and sue.

  “Jack Murphy just called. Grab a ‘live’ van and get out there. Here’s the GPS coordinates,” Elliott said and handed her a piece of scrap paper.

  “What is this?” she asked, not able to change gears so quickly.

  “It’s your big break, Claudine,” he said and his smile seemed genuine. “Now hurry over there before the fire department puts the fire out. If you hurry you might be able to catch up with Lieutenant Johnson and get a live interview.”

  She snatched the paper from his hand and ran for the back parking lot, yelling for her driver and cameraman.

  “If he’s still alive when you get there,” Elliot
t said under his breath to her retreating figure. He thought about how quickly Claudine had come up at the station. She had the looks and the talent, and people tended to trust and like her. If this worked out for her she would probably get Blake’s spot as lead anchor.

  He shook his head at the idea of Claudine upstaging Blake and thought, Blake will be one pissed-off guy. But, Murphy had asked specifically for Claudine. What was a manager to do?

  At the Alpine Motel the clientele were as anonymous as the homeless. Sitting on wooded acreage on the northwestern outskirts of Evansville, it was frequented by those who could only afford daily rates. Cody had read a book about a serial killer named Joseph Weldon Brown who had stayed at this very same motel for a week while on a seven-state killing spree about ten years ago. In his job as Blake James, he’d found the stories in the news archives at the television station. The idea that another of his kind had been here gave him comfort.

  Cody had always thought of himself as more of an avenging angel rather than a serial killer. Definitely not as the man the FBI had dubbed “The Cleaver.” How unimaginative, he thought, not for the first time. After all, I only took what rightly belonged to me.

  The people he had killed each had two faces. The one they showed to the public. The kind, hardworking, caring type of face. And then there was the other face. The one that was their true nature. Evil, degenerate, violent child abusers, child molesters, bullies. Like his father. And so, he had taken those untrue faces away from them to let the world see their true ugliness—see them for what they really were.

  He wrapped the cloth around the bone axe he had used as a child to kill the man who started all this. The axe had served him well over the last several years—had taken the faces of more than fifty two-faced liars. Wielded by a righteous man of conviction, it had the power to strip even the most powerful enemies of their disguise.