“I want the story, Murph,” Chandra said. “You can’t tell me you’ve forgotten the rush of breaking news already.”
“No, I haven’t.” Murphy’s tone lacked conviction. “But the last time I took a story too personally, I ended up in a padded room for awhile.”
“Do you regret it?” Chandra asked.
“No.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I can’t say I do.”
The line went dead.
Chandra grinned. Her instincts were on the money. K.A.R.M.A. was legit. She quickly hit the button for an outside line, and dialed Hackett’s cellphone. He answered on the third ring.
“Where are you?” Chandra asked.
“Canada.”
“Canada? What the hell you doing up there?”
“Long story, but I should be back tonight. We can talk then.”
“Listen,” said Chandra urgently. “I received an email from a group calling itself K.A.R.M.A.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Shit,” Chandra hissed. “You know about them.” It wasn’t a question.
“We’ll talk tonight.”
“Goddammit, Hackboy, don’t brush me off. They said they’re going to strike again. Do you know anything?”
Silence again.
“Hackett, don’t do this,” Chandra warned. “This is my career, too. Don’t lock me out.”
“Watch the wire services,” said Hackett.
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well that helps.”
“Just watch the wires. You’ll know it when you see it.”
“In Canada?” Chandra asked instinctively.
There was another moment of silence, then, “Yeah.”
“What part?”
“Vancouver.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Today sometime.”
“Are you involved?” Her voice softened slightly.
“Only as much as you are. I don’t know what they’re planning, but they want me here with my camera.”
“Shit, Hackett. This is getting scary.”
“You think this is scary? Talk to Fats.”
“What happened to Fats?” Chandra’s voice broke in surprise.
“K.A.R.M.A. paid him a visit last night.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah.” Hackett sighed. “The visit was a warning for me to play along, but they shook him up pretty damn good.”
Chandra flipped back into professional mode. “Will he talk to me?”
“For a story? No chance. Besides, you push too deep and we all get hurt. These guys aren’t fucking around.”
“Who are they?”
“K.A.R.M.A. is an acronym. It stands for Kids Against Rape, Murder, Abuse.”
Chandra sucked in her breath. “What are they after?”
“Revenge, I guess.”
“For crimes against kids?”
“Yeah.”
“And what’s this got to do with your uncle?” Chandra pushed.
There was silence on Hackett’s end.
“Hackboy, what is it?”
“We’ll talk later, OK,” Hackett said finally. “I can’t get into it over the phone.”
Chandra decided she couldn’t push it any further.
“Take care of yourself, Hackboy. And call me when you know what’s happening there, okay.”
“Yeah. You take care, too. I’ll see you tonight.”
The line crackled in Chandra’s ear before going dead.
TEN MINUTES LATER, Gray suit and Brown suit showed up at Chandra’s desk.
Neither of them looked happy to see her.
Chapter 34
For Charles Hudson, this was the beginning of the rest of his life.
The Vancouver courtroom was stuffed with media and the anxious families of his victims. Hudson avoided their eyes and clutched desperately at his leather-bound Bible. The suit he wore was too new and too confining after 15 years in loose-fitting prison jumpsuits, but the smell of the fabric was an aphrodisiac called freedom.
Canada’s legal system had offered him this chance — an opportunity under the “faint hope clause” of Section 745 of the Criminal Code to apply for early parole in front of a jury.
Hudson knew if he had been convicted prior to Canada abolishing capital punishment in 1976, he would have been hanged for the murder, rape and torture of 11 girls — all under the age of 18.
Instead of the noose, he was able to make a lucrative bargain with the Crown. His mother was given $10,000 per victim in return for him divulging information on five known murders and directions to the burial plots of six undiscovered bodies.
Hudson pled guilty to 11 counts of murder and was sentenced to 11 life terms — to be, and this part was almost laughable, served concurrently rather than consecutively.
If his bid today was successful, he would have served just over one year for every child he murdered.
Hudson knew the families would be out for blood, so he kept his eyes on his Bible as the crown attorney tried to convince the jury that “the monster” didn’t deserve the opportunity to apply for early release.
Unfortunately for the Crown, Hudson’s lawyers had explained that the jury’s decision must be based on probabilities and not on reasonable doubt. Plus, and this was the part Hudson was counting on, it was not the jury’s job to decide guilt or innocence.
Instead, the jury had to consider the “new and improved” character of the offender, and his conduct while in prison (for Hudson that had meant a segregated cell away from the main prison populace).
Naturally, the jury would also have to consider the nature of the offence, but even here, Hudson knew, the jury was only permitted to hear an “agreed upon” statement of the facts surrounding the murders. Jury members would not be exposed to the complete brutality of the crimes.
As for the victims’ families, all they could do was look on in horror and despair. Hudson’s lawyers had made sure they were denied the right to present victim-impact statements.
For Hudson’s side, the jury was inundated with evidence to show he had been rehabilitated and was no longer capable of violence. To this end, his lawyers presented psychiatrist reports, letters from his loving and still-supportive mother and, of course, the crucial evidence of his minister that he had finally found God.
Piece by piece, Hudson’s lawyers rebutted the Crown’s evidence and worked hard to convince the necessary two-thirds of the jury that, indeed, their client was a reformed man.
The hearing took six hours. And at 2:30 p.m., Hudson was given permission to apply for early parole.
He didn’t even have to play his trump card — information on the location of four more dead girls.
Chapter 35
Eric’s beeper vibrated against his side. He lifted it and read:
Trial is over.
Info looks good.
Keep alert.
Eric rubbed his hands on his pants and dropped to the prone position, his right foot splaying slightly. After extending his left arm on the parapet of the building, he brought the rifle to rest in the crook of his elbow.
The hardwood stock was warm and comforting against his cheek.
Just as he was taught, his grip on the rifle stayed loose, the only tension being felt on the thumb and forefinger of the shooting hand.
Eric’s main worry was the level of humidity that still hung in the air, but after checking wind direction and speed, he allowed all unnecessary thoughts to leave his mind. His total concentration focused on acquiring the target in the crosshairs of his scope.
Eric took a deep breath and released it slowly from between his lips.
He was relaxed and ready.
Chapter 36
Hackett arrived at the front of the courthouse with Frankie in tow. He was surprised to see a large throng of reporters and photographers busily clamoring for position on the concrete steps.
So much for exclusivity, he thought.
With a shrug, he pulled out his equipment and checked the lighting. The stone façade of the courthouse cast deep shadows across everyone’s face, making it necessary to attach his external flash for fill light.
The mob was tightly packed and squirming like carrion, the close quarters giving ratings rivals the opportunity to slip in an accidental ankle kick or sharp elbow to the chest.
With a crease on his lips and an excited twinkle in his eye, Hackett turned to Frankie.
“Wait here,” he said. “These guys can be vicious.”
Then, Hackett leapt into the scrum as if it was the mosh pit at a Green Day concert.
The over-stressed media, however, proved less yielding than a marijuana-relaxed rock crowd. Hackett was stopped at the perimeter by a spiky elbow to the stomach, delivered with uncanny accuracy by an attractive redhead no taller than a mailbox.
Hackett staggered backwards, the breath knocked out of him, and fought to retain his balance. When he could breathe again, the short woman was grinning at him, a 24.5-megapixel Nikon D3x clutched between her plump and freckled breasts.
A flash-thought rushed through Hackett’s mind that he had noticed the camera before the breasts — a sad realization in and of itself.
“I thought Canadians were supposed to be polite?” Hackett groaned.
The woman laughed. “Nice to see our propaganda is working.”
Hackett scowled.
“So what’s going on here?”
“Are you kidding?”
“No,” Hackett said huffily.
“If you don’t know what’s going on, why are you here?”
“Trying to earn a living, just like you.” Hackett rubbed his sore stomach and winced. “Except I don’t have a Rollerball career to fall back on.”
The woman’s light jade eyes sparkled as she ignored the jab to study Hackett’s camera.
“You have the equipment,” she said cheekily. “Pity you don’t have the brains.”
“Charming.” Hackett rolled his murky blues. “So are you going to fill me in or not?”
The woman sighed as though he had interrupted an important lecture to ask permission to use the toilet.
“Ever hear of Charles Hudson?” she asked.
Hackett shrugged, although the name did have a familiar ring to it.
“Serial child killer?” the woman said. “Murdered eleven teenage girls about fifteen years ago.”
His teeth clenched. “Yeah, I remember now.”
“He’s inside. Applying for early parole.”
“He can do that?” The pitch of Hackett’s voice rose in disbelief.
The woman shrugged. “Personally, I think they should set him free and let him walk out the front doors.”
“Why?” Hackett asked incredulously.
“Because ...,” the woman nodded over Hackett’s shoulder, “then that mob could rip him to pieces.”
Hackett turned to see a crowd of nearly five hundred people marching down the middle of the street. Their chants, banners and billboards made it perfectly clear the style of justice they believed Hudson deserved.
Suddenly, the courtroom doors burst open and a roar erupted from the media as ten policemen surged forward in a protective wedge. A figure was bundled in the middle, his head covered by a dark blue windbreaker.
Hackett lifted his camera to his eye, desperately trying to find the best shot, when a hand latched onto his arm and pulled him out of position.
“What the fuck?” Hackett spun, his expression angry, to see his pale-faced cousin holding up the pager.
“It’s a decoy,” Frankie said anxiously. “You’re supposed to go into the alley.” He pointed down the block. “Hurry.”
Hackett hesitated for just a moment as he watched the redhead elbow her way closer to the police wedge, but then he gripped his equipment tight against his chest and made a dash for the alley.
Chapter 37
The pager read:
He’s coming to you.
Eric returned his attention to the scope, narrowing his focus so that the only thing that mattered was the world within his crosshairs.
He was thankful his family’s informer — a judge’s page — had been correct in predicting the police would use the side door behind the courthouse cafeteria.
The police had pulled a switch to distract the media, but K.A.R.M.A. had eyes on their every move.
CHARLES HUDSON STEPPED out of the courthouse and lifted his face to the sun.
He had hated the sun as a child; the way it made him sweat, leaving him sticky and unclean. But now that he was on the brink of being free, the hazy afternoon warmth felt like a gift from an old friend.
An officer tugged at Hudson’s elbow, strong fingers and short, sharp nails digging into flesh. It was a feeling so familiar it made Hudson want to scream. But solitary confinement had taught him not to react as the officer pulled him further down the concrete steps toward the awaiting police van that would taxi him back to prison.
Hudson resisted the pressure, leaning his body backwards and shuffling his feet, trying to squeeze a few more moments of freedom out of the day.
That’s when he saw a young man — a metallic object gripped in his hand — rush headlong into the alley.
ERIC STARED THROUGH the crosshairs at the photographer’s excited face. He had burst into the alley with all the finesse of a bull elephant on crack, and his eyes loomed large. Eric had been expecting him.
Releasing a deep, calming breath from between pursed lips, Eric moved his finger to the trigger.
THE TWO POLICE officers spotted the man in the same instant as Hudson for, despite their personal feelings for the prisoner, they instinctively moved to shield him between them and unholstered their handguns.
The officers shouted in unison for the onrushing man to freeze.
The man stopped in his tracks and lifted the metallic object to his eye.
Hudson laughed aloud when he saw it was only a camera, and rewarded the brave shooter with an imitation of former Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau’s infamous one-finger salute.
That’s when Hudson’s right eye imploded and the back of his skull splattered across the rear guard’s chest.
ERIC RECOVERED FROM the recoil, quickly reacquired his target, and fired a second shot.
This one pierced Hudson’s throat just above the neckline of the bulletproof vest he wore underneath his shirt and tie. The shot was so true that Eric thought he heard the child killer’s spine snap under the impact.
As Hudson collapsed to the ground, a third shot penetrated the eyebrow ridge just above his left eye. The impact caused the grape-like orb to explode outward in a gelatinous gush.
Eric didn’t fire a fourth shot — he saw no need.
If by some miracle Hudson survived, he would be blind and crippled — an easy target for someone else.
Calmly, Eric dropped the rifle on the ground, along with a plain white business card, and ran for the fire escape.
Chapter 38
Hackett froze when the officers ordered him to, but not before lifting the camera to his eye.
The child killer was looking directly into the lens, his right hand rising, the middle finger pointed straight up as the others curled down around it.
Hackett grinned. The Canadian papers would love the act of defiance in the gesture — perfect for stirring up public debate and giving their opinion columnists free reign to spout off about justice reform.
Hackett took the shot and zoomed in closer just as Hudson’s head was rocked backwards and his skull exploded in a bloody mist. Hackett’s finger never left the shutter release as his camera captured every detail at ten frames per second.
What surprised him most was the sound of the gunshots. They seemed no louder than a kid popping his lunch bag.
When Hudson was on the ground, Hackett turned his lens skyward to probe the roof. He was just in time to snap off one frame as the killer dropped his rifle and vanished.
Hack
ett returned his focus to Hudson’s twitching body and saw that both officers were rising from the ground, their hands groping for their weapons.
Hackett cursed as the realization hit that he would be their main suspect as a possible accessory. He turned and started to run for the mouth of the alley.
“Freeze!” screamed one of the cops. “Don’t go anywhere!”
“You know I didn’t shoot him,” Hackett called back over his shoulder.
He continued to move forward.
A gunshot — louder than the rifle’s — reverberated down the alley walls. Hackett stopped moving, just ten feet from escape.
Hackett saw Frankie standing at the mouth of the alley, staring back at him, his mouth agape.
“Turn around!” yelled one of the cops. His commanding authority was broken by an unnerving tremor.
Hackett winked at his cousin before taking a deep breath and yelling at the top of his lungs: “Hudson’s been shot. He’s in the alley.”
Before the cops knew what was happening, a storm of journalists, photographers and TV cameras, already alerted by the gunshots, flooded into the alley and swept past Hackett as though he was invisible.
By the time police backup arrived to handle the crowd, Hackett was long gone.
Chapter 39
Eric ran.
He didn’t know where he was running to, or even exactly why. At no time during the planning stage had he ever gone beyond pulling the trigger. He assumed the cops would have been everywhere, guns out, calling for tactical and arresting him moments after he dropped the rifle.
But the cops didn’t catch him.
He didn’t even hear sirens until after he had scrambled down the fire escape and disappeared into a huge crowd of people sporting banners and T-shirts that called for Hudson’s death.
For an elated moment, Eric wanted to tell them exactly what he had done, to stand on a soapbox and proclaim to all that he had slain the monster — just like they wanted.
Karma Page 11
