by Rick Murcer
John would be lining up a six-footer and somewhere out of the background would come the soft “meeooww, meeooww.”
He would just shake his head and sink the putt anyway, take their money. He smiled at that. There was nothing like taking the money of good friends who had mocked you all morning.
None of that was the point, not truly, however. He’d miss time with his friends, and God knew none of them had much of that precious commodity left. But when it came to the slim woman he’d married those many years ago, everyone else was second. Conversely, it didn’t mean he had to like going to the mall either.
“John. We only have to walk two blocks, c’mon.”
“Libby, for the last time, you’re just lucky I’m driving you to the mall, okay?”
She stopped, turned around, stepped back to him, and took both of his hands. “I know. I know. And I appreciate you going today. But her birthday is tomorrow, her last birthday, and her son is taking her out to a nice dinner, so she wants to get a new dress.”
“Yeah, I get it. And you’re welcome.”
She kissed him, her long, streaked hair moving away from her shoulders.
“Hey, Bucko, you never know, but there could even be more in it for you tonight, you get it?”
“Now that’s an interesting thought. But we just did it about three months ago,” he said.
She kissed him again. “Well, let’s step up our game.”
“Deal. If you can get it up, you can have it.”
“John! But I do love a challenge,” she said, laughing.
They reached Gladys’s front stoop. Libby pulled the storm door open and turned the brass handle of the large wooden door. It was locked.
“Now that’s odd, she told me last night she’d be expecting us.”
“Let me try.”
John reached for the handle and had the same result as his wife.
“Hell’s bells,” he muttered.
Moving along the porch to the large bay window, he shaded his eyes with both hands and leaned his face against the glass.
The dust from the window irritated his eyes. He stepped away, pulled the handkerchief from the back pocket of his khaki shorts, and wiped his face. He squinted and looked again, his eyes growing larger.
Nothing. No Gladys and not even a sign of that annoying rat-dog she kissed like a long-lost grandkid.
“Damn it. Stay here. I’ll go around to the side door. She has that key in one of those fake rock containers,” said John.
“I better go with you. You’ll be a month figuring out which rock is real and which one isn’t.”
“True dat,” he said, in his best Hip-Hop impersonation.
She rolled her eyes. “You just aren’t right.”
They grasped hands and walked around the east side of the house toward the screened side door.
As they turned the corner, John noticed Gladys’s dog lying on the ground, chewing something. Daisy’s usually white face was a deep scarlet and, with her front paws, she held tight to whatever she was chewing.
They stopped in their tracks, Libby turning away.
“Ohh. I hate that blood stuff. Go see what she’s eating.”
“All right. All right. Fart. I suppose I’ll have to.”
John reluctantly shuffled in Daisy’s direction.
As he got closer, she began to growl and became louder with each step he took.
His walk then ended abruptly, his heartbeat instantly pounding in his chest as he bent closer to make sure of what he was seeing.
The Pomeranian growled again, but he could now clearly tell that she wasn’t chewing on a dead snake or a squirrel. That would have been acceptable. Instead, little Daisy was gnawing on a scorched human foot.
John turned and moved as fast as his legs would allow toward Libby, grabbing her hand as he went by her.
“John? What’s wrong?”
“Just dig that cell phone out of your pocket.”
She did, and then grabbed his arm, anxiety and fear on her face.
“I asked you a question.”
“You did. Let’s just say that I don’t think we’ll be going shopping today.”
“Why?”
“Cause I don’t believe Gladys is going to make it without a foot.”
Her eyes grew wide as she stood closer to him.
He took the phone from her slender fingers and dialed 911.
As he waited for a connection, he found himself wishing to all of heaven and earth he’d played golf.
CHAPTER-11
The sun rose higher in the morning sky, and Manny adjusted his amber-lensed sunglasses a little tighter to his face, the warmth already piercing through the windshield of the unmarked SUV.
South Florida wasn’t exactly known for its cold weather. Late spring here only drove that point home. It was going to be a hot one.
The unit, furnished by the local FBI office, was one of a three-auto convoy that had driven west of Miami proper on 90 and was now heading north on 997 along the very eastern edge of Everglades National Park. While the purpose for this trip was appalling, the view was captivating.
There was a distinct beauty in and around Northern Michigan, especially from the beginning of spring to the end of fall with its hundreds of miles of lakefront beaches and trails and the countless green trees and foliage topped off with the scent of native flowers like lilacs and seasonal roses. And there wasn’t anything quite like Big Mac, the Mackinaw Bridge.
But this landscape of the low country, the Everglades, held an unmatched beauty and mystery of its own. The vegetation, especially the hanging moss, seemed alien to a northern boy like himself.
The green, lush swamp flora hid shallow pools of dark water which entertained a teeming fauna ecosystem as diverse, sensitive, and complicated as any. And of course, king in this environment was the alligator.
The north had nothing remotely close to this misunderstood predator, and there was a side of Manny that wanted to get close to one in the wild. Well, maybe not too close.
Shifting in the seat, he ran his hand through his hair.
Among all of this beauty, this untainted wildlife reserve, was a spot where the killer had chosen to murder his victims. He’d bound them to an innocent, ancient West Indies mahogany tree and carved them up like a butcher preparing for the day’s business.
Author Randy Thornhorn was quoted as saying, “Can there be any question that the human is the least harmonious beast in the forest and the creature most toxic to the nest?”
He had that entirely right.
“You did the hand-through-the-hair thing. So what’s going through that mind of yours?”
He glanced over at Sophie, who was driving the white SUV, styling as usual.
“Too many things I’m afraid.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing. I just sometimes struggle reconciling the ugly side of humanity with the nature around us, especially here. I like the Everglades. To kill two people here the way this asshole did violates more than one law in my book.”
“So he’s starting to piss you off?” asked Josh from the back seat.
“Could be. But like I always say, we have to take the emotion out of these cases and do our jobs.”
“Okay, Great Sage of the North, we’ll try to keep that in mind until we catch this prick, and maybe we won’t beat him lifeless with a lead pipe or some shit,” said Sophie.
“I’ll help,” said Dean, sitting beside Josh.
“That’s two of us,” said Belle, riding between Josh and Dean.
“You three aren’t helping. But if we need a fourth . . .” said Josh.
The thought of taking this killer to task, seriously to task, had been lurking at the corners of Manny’s mind all morning, fueled by a less than subtle anger that was becoming harder to control. At least these four could verbalize it. Mentally, he had to go in another direction or he’d join in on the conversation . . . and mean it.
What the hell is wron
g with you, Williams? You’ve been angry before. Get it together.
The scripture regarding God and vengeance he’d heard a time or two came to the forefront of his thinking. He briefly wondered if God ever needed help in that arena.
The next moment, the two squad cars in front of them made a quick left onto a small one-lane trail that barely doubled as a road. It continued for about a half mile before Sophie whipped in behind the two green-and-whites and brought the truck to a stop. They had pulled off near a small clearing surrounded by tall pampas grass and green mahogany saplings.
Manny’s first thought was that this area was definitely secluded enough to do what Valentino had done. The man obviously knew that and took advantage of local knowledge.
Detective Marie Swifton exited the car on their right.
She was as tall as he remembered, slightly overweight, and a pretty woman with a dark complexion and sun-streaked black hair. She’d had a bit of an attitude the last time they’d met. Manny sensed none of that now, particularly after her warm greeting at the airport.
Her partner, Duane James, an over-sixty gentleman with curly gray hair, who stood as tall as Marie, got out of the other side of the car and moved next to her.
Three blues got out of the other unit and quickly positioned themselves across the semi-road they’d just entered, guarding it against an interruption Manny knew would never show.
Josh led the way from the vehicle as the BAU gathered in front of the two detectives.
“Are you ready for this?” asked Marie.
“We are,” said Josh. “Even though your folks have already gone over the area, Dean and Belle have their forensic kits and cameras for another look from their angle. And Sophie and I have Williams.”
“I think you have that wrong,” said Sophie. “I think he’s got us, you know.”
“I’m not sure what that means,” said Manny.
“In my weird-ass thinking, it means we’re all in this together, got it?”
“You can explain that better to me later. Right now, let’s get to it,” said Manny.
“I think I agree with Manny, but I’d like to hear your reasoning as well, when we have time after we catch this scumbag,” said Marie, offering a wry smile.
The two Miami detectives led them past another bank of high grass infiltrated by a row of squat palms with wide leaves. Then they moved into a smaller clearing decorated with yellow crime scene tape. It circled an area of about one hundred fifty feet. In the middle of that was the tree featured in the file photos he’d reviewed on the jet.
The tree was larger across and more majestic than Manny had imagined. It reminded him of a great tower rising from a forsaken green wasteland he’d seen in some fantasy movie.
“It really doesn’t stand out from the road, does it?” said Manny.
Duane shook his head. “No, it’s blocked quite well, but if you focus on it, you can sort of pick it out from 997. But when you get this close, it’s special.”
“Good God. Are you two members of the Arbor Club? What the hell difference does that make?” asked Sophie.
“Think, Sophie. Why would that be important?” asked Manny.
She started to speak and then stopped, rolling her eyes as if to say oh yeah, let’s get to work. Manny could see her wheels were now turning in the direction this investigation needed.
Sophie folded her hands together and looked at the ground, then looked back toward Manny.
“It might not mean anything. But the tree and its location could be symbolic for how he sees himself.”
“And how would that be?” asked Manny.
“Majestic and hidden away from everyone for the most part. What did Duane say, special?”
“Good thought. I think that could be true. In light of what we discussed on the jet and shared with Marie and Duane, this unsub thinks of himself as one of a kind, or certainly close to that. He doesn’t care for ordinary. I think he believes in the extraordinary and loves being next to it.”
“So he sees this tree as some sort of experience with greatness?” asked Sophie.
“You mean like a sports or music groupie?” asked Josh, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Sort of, but with a far deeper commitment,” said Manny. “I think he believes he has something special to offer, something way out from the conventional, away from the run of the mill, a gift maybe.”
“A gift of what?” asked Belle, setting her case on the ground.
Manny didn’t answer; instead he put on his polyurethane shoe protectors and ducked under the yellow tape.
He moved closer to the tree, where the crimson blood stains were still clearly outlined in various patterns on the wide trunk.
Slowly circling the tree, he scanned it from the base to where the blood stains stopped at about seven-feet high. He was careful to not touch, even though he wanted to reach out a few times and pull things from the tree. He suspected . . . no, he knew Dean and Belle would find evidence that the Miami-Dade CSU hadn’t. They were supposed to. Because they were the best of the best.
Finishing his lap around the tree, he stepped back about three feet and did it again, carefully changing his eye level and going over every square inch.
After a third round another yard farther away from the hardwood, he stopped, cocking his head to the left then to the right. He paced slowly to where the two bodies had hung together at their closest point.
Then he finally saw the haunting pattern created by Valentino.
“You all need to see this,” he said without looking in their direction.
They gathered near him, looking over his shoulder.
“See what? I don’t see crap,” said Sophie.
“Belle asked about ‘a gift of what?’ I thought that a great question because I was thinking in a different direction.”
“What direction?” asked Marie.
“I was thinking he thought of himself in narcissistic terms. That he was self-indulgent and above others. That he was entitled to do whatever he wanted to whomever.”
“You don’t think that now? I mean this reeks of an organized serial killer that has probably been forced to bone his sister or mother or uncle and he’s ready to play out his revenge and frustration,” said Marie, impatience in her voice.
“I don’t. I think he’s about something entirely different. Look closely at where these two stains meet, and then go right around the tree. Pretend you’re looking at one of those image challenges we see sometimes that are like frogs and women in the same image, depending on how you focus your eyes. What do you see?”
It took them awhile, but one by one, with Belle being the first one to circle the tree, they each saw what Manny had discovered.
The collective release of pent-up breaths seemed to be in complete sync before anyone spoke.
“What a sick bitch,” said Sophie softly. “What in hell does VALENTINO IS FREE mean?”
CHAPTER-12
The screeching din was louder than he’d thought it would be. But then again, he’d never really been this close to four police cruisers with lights flashing and sirens blasting in all of their magnificent glory.
He doubted most people had, unless they lived in one of the violent sections of downtown Miami. In that case, he supposed people would just keep doing what they were doing or rollover and go back to bed if the point of attention didn’t concern them. It was truly interesting what people became accustomed to seeing and hearing. He knew that from personal experience.
Walking at just the right speed, flipping his lighter open and closed as he did, he moved down the sidewalk toward the house that had attracted so much attention.
The hot sun felt good on his back, and the faint scent of snapdragons riding along the breeze only heightened his sense of being totally alive. Finally.
He suddenly remembered visiting a butterfly house in Aruba as a child when he and his parents had traveled the Caribbean.
The creatures were amazing in themselves, floating and
dodging everything that wasn’t relevant to their world at that moment. So carefree. Except, of course, the occasions when a stray salamander got into the house.
During that visit, he’d watched a beautiful, vivid green malachite emerge from the ugly cocoon that had been its home for months.
It had been wondrous to him that something so unattractive had given birth to a creature so diametrically opposite of that ugliness. The creature was stunning.
From that moment forward, he longed to be engulfed in and subsequently released from that apparent paradox. His longing had finally ended. He had arrived.
It had taken time. Patience. Deep, reflective journeys into his upbringing as it related to his design, his ultimate gift and purpose. But in the end, like the butterfly, he sensed when the timing was right to escape the cocoon. To seek and embrace the freedom of becoming who he truly was.
Stopping a couple hundred feet away from the house, he closed his eyes, reflecting on the morning’s activities. He’d been creative, a true artist in the creation of the display at the tree in the Everglades, but Gladys and her son Peter . . . well, that had been another step in his evolution altogether.
He wondered if the people who saw his creation would feel the same way. It was extremely difficult not to want to hear what they had to say. To see the looks of thoughtful expression as they commented on his talent. What artist didn’t live for that?
Moving a bit slower, he finally reached the yellow tape encircling the house. The short, African-American female officer standing guard on that section of the sidewalk raised her hand for him to stop.
“Good morning officer. What’s going on?”
“There’s been a home invasion,” she said.
“Oh no. Is everyone all right?”
“No. They are not. But you already know that, right?”
Her comment caught him totally off guard. He fought the panic rising from the bottom of his gut and the almost-overwhelming impulse to run.
How did they know? What had given him away? He’d been so careful, so true to his mission.
“What do you mean?” he asked, managing to keep his emotion in check.