by Tom Savage
He was just beginning to convince himself that he must get to a phone as quickly as he could, dial 911, and report the incident anonymously, when he saw an ambulance and three police squad cars racing by him in the opposite direction, four swift blurs in the heavy rain. So someone had happened upon the scene on the lonely stretch of road, perhaps people leaving the Fitzgerald funeral. But the officer was dead, he was certain of it. There was no help for him now.
Scavenger. Scavenger had done this.
And he had done it with Mark’s gun.
Mark stumbled across the lobby and into the dark, nearly empty bar. He ordered a glass of brandy that he quickly drained, then a second one that sat on the bar before him while he willed himself to calm down, ignored by the few other customers in the place and the bored bartender. The liquor soon worked its way through him, restoring and reviving. He willed himself to breathe slowly and evenly as he sipped the second drink and wondered what he should do.
His gun. Scavenger had his gun, and he was killing people with it. Mark had purchased the weapon shortly after moving to New York from Chicago, a few months after the slaughter of his family, when he realized that even in a new city with a new identity he did not feel safe. He’d bought it new at a store on Canal Street, and he had the appropriate license and registration, but he had only fired it at the private range where he went for instruction. As far as he knew, the police had no way of tracing the weapon through ballistics. On the other hand, they had records of everyone who legitimately owned Smith & Wesson .38 revolvers, and his name would be there. But would the police assume that the nurse in New Orleans and the policeman in Los Angeles—even if the two crimes were ballistically linked—were killed by a legitimate, licensed owner?
He took another long sip of the soothing amber liquid. No, he thought, there was no reason for the police in two cities to link the crimes; not immediately, at any rate. That could take weeks, even months. And by then, the game would be over.
The game.
The cemetery. He had been to visit the Websters, and he had received Scavenger’s new instructions. The WORD is in your hotel room … Matthew.
He thought about the house outside New Orleans. The dead man in the armchair, his throat slashed, the horrible mask obscuring his face.
The pretty, friendly young nurse, shot, lying in the darkness at the edge of a deserted hospital parking lot.
And now, in Los Angeles, not one hour ago, a young police officer’s lifeless body had crashed into him. The vacant eyes staring up at the rain.…
The WORD is in your hotel room … Matthew.
Mark finished the second brandy and got up from the barstool. He paid the bartender and went out into the brightly lit lobby. He blinked around at the well-dressed men and women who strolled about the place, smiling and laughing together, talking animatedly. Normal people with normal lives. He had rarely felt so removed from them as he did at this moment. So isolated. So alone.
With a quickening step and cold resolve, he moved through the milling throng of warm humanity and entered the elevator. When he arrived in his room a few minutes later, he went directly over to the desk and opened the top drawer.
The Gideon Bible was still there, but it was not as he had last seen it. Now it was wrapped in the familiar black paper and ribbon, with a black bow on the front. Shaking his head in disgust, he tore the wrapping away. He opened the book to the second half and thumbed through the pages until he came to the beginning of the New Testament, the Book of Matthew.
A little sheet of paper, three inches by five, had been inserted between the second and third pages of the section, with a message scrawled on it in red Magic Marker. On the two-column page that now faced up, a passage had been highlighted in yellow. He read the passage first. It was Matthew 7:1–2:
Judge not, that ye be not judged.
For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged; and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.
He read the passage twice. He already knew it by heart, as he knew so much of the Bible by heart. His father had seen to that. How many times had he heard his father bellow these very words, his stentorian voice booming out from a variety of pulpits, many of them televised? Of course, the late reverend and the rest of Mark’s family had all but disowned him, proving that the words had merely been mouthed, never taken to heart. Grim irony: they had been judged. On the Christmas morning that the prodigal had returned to them, they had met their gruesome fate at the hands of The Family Man.
Then Mark read the message on the slip of paper. It was only one sentence:
The Family Man had his own religion.
He stood there staring down at the words, gradually becoming aware that somewhere nearby a telephone was ringing. It was the portable phone, which he hadn’t taken with him on his travels today. When he’d arrived in L.A. last night, he’d attached it to its battery pack and plugged it into the wall socket near the bed. This morning, before leaving the hotel, he’d unplugged it and tossed it on the bedside table next to the hotel room phone. A breach of the rules, but he was beginning not to care. Now, with what had happened since this morning, he marched over to the table, snatched up the instrument, and snapped it on.
The familiar voice was there, as ever: low, melodious, full of implied good humor. “Good evening, Mark.”
“Fuck you.”
“Did you have a nice time today?”
“Fuck you!”
“I’m glad to hear that. I thought you might be … amused.”
“Fuck you!”
“Oh, I’m fine, thank you. A little damp, I suppose, but this weather is frightful, is it not?”
Realizing the futility of continuing to scream at a madman, Mark capitulated. He drew in a deep, ragged breath and slowly let it out. When he spoke again, his voice was controlled. “What do you want?”
A giggle. “Lower taxes. A better insurance plan. Sharon Stone in a bikini. World peace.”
Mark almost began to shout again, but he caught himself, merely repeating as reasonably as he possibly could, “What do you want?”
There was a pause, and another soft giggle. Then the voice continued. “It’s nearly six o’clock, time for the news. I think you should turn on the set in the cabinet beside your dresser with the remote on the table near the phone. May I recommend Channel Six? They have the most excellent coverage in the City of Angels. That Sandra Chan is a marvelous anchorwoman, always so thorough. And I think tonight you’ll want to hear all the news. It should be most … revealing. I’ll talk to you later, Mark.”
The line went dead. With a moan of frustration, Mark dropped the phone on the bed, picked up the remote from the bedside table, and went across the room to the cabinet. He threw open the doors to reveal a big television set. Aiming the remote, he turned it on and punched in Channel Six. He sank wearily onto the foot of the bed, aware of how cold he was. He was still damp from the rain, and the room’s air conditioner was on full blast. A hot shower, he thought, but first the news.
He glanced at his watch: five fifty-eight. A shampoo commercial, followed by a car commercial. Then the fanfare of trumpets and drums, the announcer’s voice, and the screen was filled with the image of a pretty Asian woman with glistening hair.
“Good evening, I’m Sandra Chan. More fighting has broken out in Bosnia, and at least forty-three people are …”
Mark drew the bedspread up around his shoulders, staring at the screen. The civil war footage was followed by an airline disaster off the coast of Georgia, then a local fire that had gutted a popular delicatessen in the Valley. Another United Nations ultimatum to a Middle Eastern dictator. A scandal in the Los Angeles government. Then a fast-food commercial. Mark was beginning to wonder why Scavenger wanted him to watch this when the program came back on.
Sandra Chan said, “Police in New Orleans and Washington, D.C., are puzzled by a series of incidents in their cities in the last two days, and concern is growing that the notorious Family Man ma
y have struck again. As you no doubt recall …”
The television screen was suddenly filled with images. The five murder scenes, including the Farmer home in Evanston. The victims, including Reverend Farmer and Mark’s mother, brother, and sister. Then came more recent footage, the parking lot of the Pontchartrain Clinic with paramedics wheeling a sheet-covered body on a gurney. The anchorwoman’s voice faded in and out of his consciousness.
“… local nurse Millicent Call, who attended Sarah Gammon, formerly Sarah Tennant …”
Now came new images, and Mark felt the first shudder of fear. An exterior shot of Tennant House, the front drive swarming with police cars and news vans. The footage was followed by a still photograph of an attractive, smiling man with bright red hair.
“… the discovery today of the body of lawyer Robert Gammon, thirty-nine, of New Orleans. An anonymous phone call led police to Tennant House, the scene of the first Family Man incident. Gammon was the husband of Sarah Gammon, and his murder is reminiscent of the Tennant murders thirteen years ago. He was found sitting in a chair in the living room of the mansion, his throat slashed, and the room had been decorated with balloons, candles, and confetti, exactly as it was on the night …”
Robert Gammon, Mark thought. The man in the chair was Robert Gammon. They found him where I found him. But no, that can’t be. He took Robert Gammon away while I was unconscious. The body and the decorations were gone the next morning, when I—
His thought was interrupted by new images on the screen. Washington. The street in Georgetown. More police cars. A stretcher being placed in an ambulance. Mark blinked, then stared.
“… approximately two hours ago when a neighbor heard a single gunshot from the house in the quiet residential area. Former Federal Bureau of Investigation Special Agent Ronald O’Hara, fifty-six, had been shot once in the temple with his own gun, which was found clutched in his hand. Police are calling this death a suicide, but they are cooperating with authorities in New Orleans due to the coincidental nature of the deaths. O’Hara was the special agent in charge of the multistate FBI investigation into the Family Man murders. His former wife, Grammy-winning and Oscar-nominated actress/singer Wanda Morris, was unavailable for comment. Lieutenant William Alton of the Washington police said, and I quote, ‘We do not want to speculate at this time as to whether there is a connection between this unfortunate …’ ”
Mark closed his eyes tightly and flung the bedspread away from him. The room, so cold only moments ago, seemed to be growing increasingly close, stifling. Warm perspiration began to mingle with the cold rainwater that had soaked his clothes.
Then someone, a woman, uttered his name. He opened his eyes and looked once more at the television screen, and the warm perspiration turned to cold sweat.
He was looking at himself.
There, on the huge monitor behind Ms. Chan’s glossy hair, was the publicity still from the dust jacket of his latest book. His own face filled the screen behind the woman as her voice once more crashed into his consciousness.
“… bestselling author Mark Stevenson, who visited Mrs. Gammon in the Pontchartrain Clinic, where she has been a patient for several weeks, just two days ago. Robert Gammon’s secretary has informed the New Orleans police that Stevenson spoke to Mr. Gammon on the phone, as well. Stevenson’s latest novel, Dark Desire, is a thinly veiled fictional account of the Family Man murders. Though Stevenson is not a suspect, the NOPD would like to question him, as he might have information relevant to their investigation. He is believed to be in or near Los Angeles, as he purchased an airline ticket from New Orleans to Los Angeles International Airport early yesterday morning. The all-points bulletin was issued today by New Orleans authorities, and anyone with knowledge of Stevenson’s whereabouts is asked to contact them at the following toll-free number.…”
Mark couldn’t breathe. The room now seemed to be getting smaller, closing in on him. The officer on the motorcycle had seen his name on his driver’s license, recognized it from the APB that had obviously extended to L.A., where they very correctly believed Mark to be. That was why he’d told Mark to get out of the car.…
The toll-free number of the NOPD appeared on the screen, followed abruptly by another legend: BREAKING STORY. Ms. Chan leaned forward slightly, apparently reading something unfamiliar that had just been fed into the TelePrompTer. Mark gaped: it was as if the television itself had read his thoughts.
“This just in: the body of a Los Angeles police officer has been found on a hillside road outside the city limits. He was shot once in the back. Emergency personnel arriving at the scene attempted to revive him, but were unsuccessful. The officer’s identity is being withheld pending notification of relatives. Once again, a Los Angeles police officer has been found dead of a gunshot wound. We’ll bring you more of this story as soon as it becomes available.…”
The phone on the bed beside him rang again. Mark stared at it a moment, then picked it up.
“You can turn it off now, Mark. That’s all the news.”
Mark aimed the remote and switched the television off. In the silence that followed, he was aware of his own heavy breathing. He licked his lips and said, “You killed Robert Gammon.”
The giggle again. “Oh, come now, Mark! You’re the one who got him involved. You shouldn’t have spoken to him.”
“Shouldn’t have …? How the hell was I supposed to find Sarah, much less get in to see her?”
“Oh, Mark, don’t whine. It’s so unattractive. A journalist like you, unable to find a prominent woman in a little city like that? Please!”
Mark tried a different tack. “The New Orleans police are looking for me.”
“Yes, I believe they are. What are you going to do about that?”
“I’m going to call them. I’m going to tell them everything I know about you, you sick bastard!”
“Oh, you are, are you?” Another giggle. “I don’t think so, Mark. I have something that belongs to you. Have you forgotten that? I think the medical examiners in New Orleans and Los Angeles would be very interested in it—if it were to, shall we say, fall into their possession?”
Mark shut his eyes tightly. The gun. The Smith & Wesson .38 that had killed Millicent Call and the as-yet-unidentified cop. His gun. Rage welled up inside him, the acute rage of complete impotence.
“Why did you kill O’Hara?” he cried. “I didn’t break your rules with him. I didn’t talk to him without your precious permission! You sent me to him! Why kill him?”
Now there was a pause on the line, and for a moment Mark thought Scavenger might have hung up. Then the low voice came again.
“Think, Mark. Think like a writer, like a journalist. O’Hara died two hours ago, at approximately seven o’clock p.m., eastern standard time. Four o’clock, Pacific. Where were you at four o’clock this afternoon?”
Mark actually had to think a minute, clear the fog of all the events of the last few hours. “Four o’clock? I—I was in the cemetery.”
“And what were you doing there?”
“You know what I was doing there. You were there, watching me through—binoculars.…” He trailed off, realizing the import of what he was saying.
“Ahhhh,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
Mark licked his dry lips again. An image had come into his mind now, a memory from Washington three days ago. A sad, lonely man in a big, empty townhouse in Georgetown. His wife and children gone. His illustrious, exciting career gone. Everything he’d ever wanted, gone. All gone.
“So,” he finally managed to whisper, “O’Hara really did kill himself …?”
Now Scavenger’s tone was eminently reasonable. “You know, Mark, it’s like they say: Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. I assure you, I was just as surprised as you to hear that particular news. Oh, well. You’ve learned everything you can learn in L.A., and I must congratulate you. You managed it with six hours to spare! Not bad! You’re beginning to get the hang of this! And about time, too, becaus
e the game is nearly over. I think it’s time you got your second wind, don’t you? Your second wind, Mark. Be there at exactly midnight tomorrow night. You’re looking for a photograph. Cheerio!”
“Wait!” Mark cried, but the line was already dead.
Mark dropped the cell phone and lay back on the bed, absorbing the various slings and arrows that had assaulted him in the last few hours, to say nothing of the last few days. How much of this could he take? he wondered, absently fingering the bunched-up bedspread. How much could anyone take?
Well, he had taken a lot in his life, more than most. He had lived through the massacre of his family, drug addiction, life on the streets, a new identity in a new city. He had worked his way through college. He’d been a market researcher and a journalist, and now he was a novelist with a growing reputation. An award-winning writer. He had accomplished a great deal, and he had survived even more—more than anyone he’d ever met, certainly.
And he would survive this.
He dragged himself up off the bed and shed his damp clothing. The clothes he’d worn here from New Orleans—jeans, work shirt, briefs, and socks—had been cleaned by the hotel’s laundry service and were now neatly piled on the dresser. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, waiting until the water was hot enough to steam the mirror. Then he got in and stood under the spray, washing his hair and body repeatedly. He inspected the darkening bruise on his right shin just below the knee where he had collided with the gravestone. It was tender, but the damage was minimal. It would be gone in a week or so.
He emerged from the tub and dried himself with a big, soft towel. It was Thursday now, and the scavenger hunt was supposed to be over Saturday at midnight. What had Scavenger just said on the phone? Oh, yes …