by Jack Heath
I dial, and press the phone to my ear.
‘Hello?’ Luzhin says.
‘It’s Blake,’ I say. ‘I’m calling about Cameron’s lookalike.’
It takes me a few minutes to explain everything I’ve learned over the past couple days, and my theory about what it all means.
‘This is a lot of speculation,’ he says finally. ‘Even for you.’
‘What’s the alternative?’ I say. ‘A whole family moves from Houston to Chicago without telling a single friend or colleague in person? And leaves their cat to die?’
‘Folks do everything online these days. I found out about my niece’s engagement when she changed her Facebook status—that’s just how people announce things now. The fact that no one’s seen them in the flesh, that’s lack of evidence, not evidence.’
‘You want evidence,’ I say, ‘then open an investigation.’
‘That’s going to be hard with no one to file a missing person’s report.’
‘Jane Austin will.’
‘But she didn’t even know the victim.’
‘Sounds like you don’t think the Shea family is worth the FBI’s time,’ I say. ‘Too poor, maybe? I’m sure CNN would be interested to hear about that.’
I can hear the anger in Luzhin’s voice. ‘You know that’s not how it is.’
‘Prove me wrong. Open the case.’
There’s a long silence.
‘Fine,’ he says.
I smile.
‘Don’t think this means you automatically get rewarded,’ he continues. ‘The legwork you’ve already done isn’t enough. You have to actually find the kid.’
‘You’re doing the right thing,’ I say.
‘Don’t you talk to me about right and wrong,’ he replies. ‘I know which is which.’
He hangs up.
I pass the phone back to Thistle. ‘He’s opening the investigation.’
She looks like a shark that smells blood in the water—not exactly happy, but determined. ‘Then I should get over to the field office,’ she says.
‘Good idea. Make some calls about flights to Chicago. Get someone to start canvassing near Shea’s house.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Think,’ I say. ‘I’m out of ideas, so I need to think up some more.’
•
I’m in the kitchen, pulling on some pink dishwashing gloves, tucking the sleeves of my raincoat into the wrists. My vision is distorted by the old pair of swim goggles on my face. The hard white dust mask keeps a cocoon of hot air around my mouth and nose. Since John Johnson isn’t around anymore, I’m naked from the waist down. It’s liberating, though I haven’t yet figured out what I’ll do about rent. The cash hidden in Johnson’s room won’t last forever.
The safest way to get rid of a body is to buy some drain cleaner, or whatever else is available with a high concentration of sulphuric acid. Put the body in the bathtub and scrape the flesh off it with a hand plane, the same kind of tool used to smooth timber.
I swing a framing hammer against the Tanzanian’s rib cage, shattering it into chunks that fall to the floor of the tub like fish sticks. Then I crack the sternum, the forehead, the pelvis. I keep on swinging until no part of him is bigger than a matchbox.
Bones aren’t the only inedible bits of the human body. Skin, glands and tendons are too chewy, while some organs are toxic. I keep all these parts in a sealed bucket, which has been thawing for the last two hours and is now ready to be tipped into the tub like pig slop.
I pick up the jug of sulphuric acid. Very, very carefully, I pour it over the bone fragments. For a minute, nothing happens. Then they start to crackle and hiss like sausages on a low-heat barbecue.
When the jug is empty, I turn on the extractor fan, which rattles and coughs like the oldest man on earth. I didn’t want to turn it on earlier, just in case there was bone dust in the air which hadn’t settled yet. Bone dust gives you lung cancer. I didn’t want any to get stuck to the fan blades.
Even with the fan on, the fumes aren’t pretty. I used to have to stand here in the stink with the door locked while the bodies gurgled and spat. Now that Johnson is gone I can sit on the couch and watch TV while I wait.
An hour later the bones and tendons have dissolved. I pick up a twisted wire coathanger and dip the hook into the acid. After a bit of fumbling, I’ve found the plug and pulled it out.
I wonder if anyone misses him. Unlike the John Doe who was cremated in his place, courtesy of Luzhin’s wizardry with paperwork—one of a thousand unidentified black male corpses who lie on freezing slabs for months with no one to claim them—the Tanzanian had neighbours and friends. Plus, he was a bit famous during the trial.
As I watch the dead man disappear down the plughole in a grey-brown whirlpool, like the Ambulance Killer before him, I feel like I should say something. A brief eulogy. A few kind words.
But when I eventually get caught and executed, no one will say anything nice about me.
I shower. First with the raincoat and gloves and goggles on, then naked while they drip-dry on hooks above the tub.
Being poor has its benefits. After I’ve towelled off, it doesn’t take me any time at all to decide what to wear to dinner tonight. I only have the two outfits, one of which is always either soaking in the sink or draining on the towel rack while the other is on my body.
I carry the day’s clothes through the house and toss them into the sink. Then I lift the rest off the rack and pull them on. Done.
It’s also easy to stay in shape, since the only food I can afford is fresh fruit and vegetables, plus the occasional death row playmate. But I’m rare—obesity can be a sign of poverty these days.
Mrs Radfield explained that to me and the other kids at the group home once. ‘Iowa gets to vote first in the presidential caucuses,’ she said. ‘Can anyone tell me what the primary industry of Iowa is?’
Arty, the girl who stole my meatloaf, raised her hand. ‘Corn?’
‘Correct. This means the candidates have to promise to continue subsidising corn farmers, or else they don’t get to be president. So the farmers end up growing more corn than the country needs, which means they need to find something to do with the excess. What they do is turn it into high-fructose corn syrup and sell it as a cheap sugar substitute. And what’s the problem with that?’
‘Gives you diabetes.’
Mrs Radfield nodded. ‘Plus heart and liver disease. Hence, fat poor people.’
When I was homeless, I spent every donation on meat, not cheap candy. That was lucky; no one gives money to a fat beggar.
I’m also fortunate that I don’t live in Mexico. All this cheap food gets trucked down there, putting local growers out of business, so they try to get to the USA to find work. And Mexico’s collapsing economy has left the way open for drug cartels and corrupt police, causing even more Mexicans to flee up towards the border.
‘Iowa has created a problem,’ Mrs Radfield said, ‘that Texas has to solve.’
A straight razor waits on the windowsill in the bathroom. I pick it up, splash some water on my face, and scrape the stubble from my cheeks.
When I’m done, a single droplet of blood hangs from my jawline. I touch it, and put my finger to my lips. Other people’s blood always tastes better than my own. Don’t know why.
I tear a square of toilet paper off the roll and stick it to the wound. Then I hold my head under the faucet and wet my hair before scrubbing it with a towel and slicking it back so it’ll dry in that position.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I conclude that I look as good as I ever will. Why am I going to so much effort? Thistle has seen me on a regular day. She’s not going to be fooled into thinking I’m handsome or even above average. Plus, why would I care if she did?
It’s for the restaurant, I tell myself. If it’s someplace fancy, I don’t want to attract attention by looking out of place.
When I meet the gaze of the guy in the mirror, I get the sudden, unnerv
ing sense that it’s not me. I’m a rescuer of children, who likes puzzles, while he’s a demon, hungry for human flesh. Any second now, the demon will smash his fist through the glass, grab me by the throat, and pull me towards his unhinged jaws.
The illusion only lasts a moment. The man is nothing more than a reflection of me. Both a person and a monster.
The sun sits just atop the trees outside. It’s time to leave. I lock up the house, get in the Chevy, and drive.
The Hall residence isn’t far out of my way. I have time to stop by and ask Cameron if he was molested. By the kidnapper, that is, not his mother.
When I get to the gated community, the old guard with the long teeth—the ex-cop—is on duty again.
‘Mr Blake,’ he says. ‘Different car?’
After seventeen years with the local cops, he probably knows what a stolen car looks like.
‘I don’t remember introducing myself,’ I say.
‘The kid told me to let you through if you came back.’
‘Cameron Hall?’
‘I guess so,’ the guard says. ‘Blond teenage boy? In the car with Ms Hall?’
‘That’d be him. He say what he wanted?’
‘No. This was last week.’
If Cameron wanted to talk to me last week, why hasn’t he called me?
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
The guard unlocks the gate. I drive through into the darkness of the gated community. The grounds are as quiet and perfect as a cemetery. A minute later I’m standing on the Halls’ porch, ringing the bell. I don’t hear movement inside.
I bang on the door. ‘Ms Hall, Cameron, open up.’
Nothing.
‘It’s Timothy Blake,’ I say. ‘I saved Cameron’s life, the least you can do is let me in.’
More silence. They’re not home.
Maybe I don’t need to talk to Cameron to get the information I need. Perhaps a quick look around his home would be enough.
I close my eyes and do a mental walk through the house, looking for easy access. The back door and the screen door covering it are both locked. The windows all have bolts on them, and I don’t want to risk smashing one.
I try to remember the status of the windows in Annette Hall’s room. Closed, yes. But locked? It didn’t look like it.
I vault over the side gate and ascend the wrought-iron grid beside the back door, ivy sticky under my fingers. I’m in luck—Ms Hall’s bedroom window is stiff, but not locked. I pry it open and slip inside.
Once I’m in, I stand still for a few seconds, listening. The only sound is the beeping of the alarm downstairs. I trot down and turn it off, using Annette Hall’s birthday. Silence falls.
The downstairs area looks just like it did when I last saw it. The same clothes fill the hamper in the laundry. The knife in the kitchen still has a drop of my blood on it.
Back upstairs, Annette Hall’s bed is made, but otherwise the room is unchanged. The en suite is clean. The drugs are still in the cupboard behind the mirror. There are no extra loofahs in the shower, the soap doesn’t appear to have decreased in size, the towels aren’t bloody. No sign that someone’s been in the shower for hours and hours, scrubbing themselves until they bleed, the way rape survivors sometimes do. But of course, I’ll have to check Cameron’s bathroom too.
I open Ms Hall’s wardrobe. Five or six outfits are missing. And there’s a spot on the top shelf where I think there was a suitcase before.
My blood runs cold. This is all starting to feel horribly familiar. Robert Shea’s house was sanitised in exactly the same way.
Has the kidnapper been here a second time? Waited for the FBI to let Cameron and his mother go, and then dragged them both from their home?
There’s no sign of forced entry or a struggle. I know I’m missing something; I just can’t work out what.
If the Halls have been abducted again, I have to tell Luzhin—but I can’t let him know that I’m breaking into houses.
I pick up the phone, and hit the button marked Block caller ID. Then I dial Luzhin’s office. It’s almost six, but he’s probably still there.
The phone rings three or four times before Luzhin picks up. ‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Blake.’
‘Where are you calling from?’
‘A friend’s house. Listen, I just drove out to the Hall place, and it doesn’t look like anybody’s home.’
‘Hey, you can’t go hassling victims,’ Luzhin says. ‘That’s the FBI’s job.’
Ha ha. ‘I just wanted to ask Cameron a couple questions,’ I say. ‘The car isn’t in the drive. Have you seen Cameron since we rescued him, or Annette?’
‘No,’ Luzhin says. ‘But I asked them if there was anybody they could stay with, and she said her folks lived nearby.’
Cameron’s grandparents. I remember seeing Mom + Dad in the list of recently dialled numbers.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, maybe they’re with them.’
‘I’ll phone Annette’s cell first thing tomorrow and check that they’re okay. You just worry about finding Robert Shea. Got that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I say, and hang up. Then I scroll through the recent call list on the phone until I find the number for the grandparents, and hit redial.
It seems likely that Luzhin is right and that’s where Cameron and his mother have gone, but I have to know for sure.
The phone beeps in my ear—the line is engaged. Probably a good sign. I memorise the number so I can try again later.
I go down the hall to Cameron’s room. A quick poke around doesn’t reveal much. Some clothes missing. No bloody towels in the en suite. No used condoms among the trash.
This could be exactly what it looks like: the kid’s gone off to stay with grandma and grandpa.
Sometimes people send me Rubik’s Cubes and, after a bit of fiddling, I realise that they’ve peeled the coloured stickers off and rearranged them so it can’t be solved. The feeling I get when I’m searching for the scratch marks, the ones that’ll tell me which squares have been moved—that’s the feeling I’m getting now, looking at this empty house.
•
I’m waiting on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, thinking about Dr Fallun. About the questions he asked at the army interview, about the way he looked at me, the way he somehow knew what I was.
He’s the reason I’m so nervous about meeting Thistle tonight. She’s not a shrink, but she is a cop. I’ve never hung out with a cop in a social context, certainly never one as smart as Thistle. Surely she’d know a serial killer if she had dinner with one.
I watch the servers watching me through the double-glazed window. They’re probably used to homeless people coming in, asking for a table and a menu, and then going to the restroom to wash themselves before walking out again. I haven’t been a beggar for a few years now, but I still have the look—hollow cheeks, faded clothes, rough skin. Servers are very perceptive. They need to be, since they live off tips.
I could go in, say Thistle’s name and phone number, and wait for her inside. But they’ll give a better table to her than to me.
And here she is anyway. She’s dressed up—I can see a cream halter top under her coat, and a silky skirt that’s dark red, almost black. Her high heels are a matching shade. Pear-shaped studs sparkle in her earlobes.
And she’s smiling. That’s what makes her truly beautiful, and I find myself off balance. This is a date with a woman who’s both out of my league and very dangerous to me. I shouldn’t be here.
‘Timothy,’ she says. ‘Good to see you.’
I nod, and gesture towards the door. ‘After you.’
We walk up the red carpet, which is a little too short and narrow to create the sense of luxury the owners probably hoped for. But the fact that it’s a restaurant at all seems luxurious to me.
‘You been here before?’ Thistle asks.
I laugh.
‘What?’ she says.
Oh. She wasn’t kidding. I’m used to Luzhin, Richmond
and Johnson—it’s weird to have a conversation where I’m not being looked down on.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I just don’t get out much.’
‘Agoraphobia?’ she asks.
‘Poverty.’ It just slips out.
She laughs, although I think she’s only pretending to believe I was kidding.
‘Table for two?’ the waiter says. He’s white, tall, with hair gelled back to reveal a Dracula-style widow’s peak. The doubtful glance he sends my way is quick, but I catch it.
‘Reservation for RT,’ Thistle says. ‘For six thirty.’
‘This way, ma’am,’ the waiter says. ‘And sir.’
He leads us to a table in the corner with hard wooden chairs on either side of it and a candle burning in a glass on top. As we walk, we pass another couple who have just been presented with the check.
‘Don’t worry,’ the man is saying. ‘I got this.’
The woman says, ‘You sure?’
‘Of course.’ He gets out his American Express, but he looks unhappy—like he wanted her to fight harder. I wonder how Thistle will look when I don’t offer to pay.
She takes off her coat and perches on the far side of the table. I like being able to see the door, but I don’t want to make a big thing of it, so I just sit down.
Her top exposes a star-shaped scar on her shoulder. An old bullet wound. She sees me looking.
‘My FBI star,’ she says.
‘Sorry,’ I say, and look away.
I find myself staring at the other couple. I memorise the man’s credit card number out of habit. It’s not as hard as you’d think—the first six numbers on an Amex card are always the same, so I only need to remember thirteen digits including the verification number. Amex is the perfect card for fraud, partly because the verification number is on the front rather than the back, but mostly because Amex customers use their cards so often that they’re less likely to notice a few stray charges on their statement.
In the USA, you’re likely to get caught if you try to buy anything with a stolen card. But not in Egypt, Russia or Indonesia. That’s why, if you can find the right online forum, you can sell a stolen card number for about fifty bucks. The minimum wage in Texas is $7.25 per hour, so the Amex number I just memorised would be worth almost a whole day’s honest labour. If it weren’t for this skill, I’d still be sleeping on dead grass under an overpass.