by Barry Lyga
And because it’s fun, Jasper, Billy’s voice whispered. Don’t forget that part. You’ll know, someday.
Jazz shivered uncontrollably. G. William, alarmed, grabbed his arm and pulled him to a standing position. “C’mon, kid. Let’s get—”
“No. No. I’m okay.” He shook off G. William and leaned closer to Irene Heller. “This guy…He’s not in control. He’s under control. He’s subordinated his entire personality to this idea in his head of who and what Billy is. Worships Billy’s memory and legacy. I mean, he’s obviously studied everything there is to study about Billy. He might even think he is Billy, on some level.”
The sheriff grunted. Jazz paused, but G. William nodded for him to continue.
“He’s probably impotent,” Jazz went on. “He doesn’t have the triggers Billy had. Has, I mean. Billy was compelled to rape. But rape isn’t just something you do. It’s not an easy thing. This guy…He wants to be able to rape, but he can’t. Because he’s just pretending to be Billy. He couldn’t rape her with his penis if you put a gun to his head and threatened to kill him. He used something else.”
G. William cleared his throat and made a note on his smartphone. “Anything else?”
Jazz looked around the tiny bathroom. “He’s accelerating his timetable. It took Billy two more days to kill Isabella Hernandez. The Impressionist is moving faster. He might know we’re on to him. Figures he needs to start stacking up the bodies.” Jazz thought for a moment. “His next will be number six. I wonder if he’ll stop there?”
“Well, if he sticks to fingers, he can only go to nine, since he leaves one behind. But six would coincide with the last murder Billy did as the Artist,” the sheriff mused, “before he switched over to, uh…”
“Green Jack,” Jazz supplied.
Jazz turned to G. William. The sheriff looked utterly deflated, as though someone had pulled a tab on his back and let all the air and all the life run out of his insides. The big red nose supplied the only color in his otherwise pallid, drawn face.
“I’ll make sure you get a copy of the final report,” he told Jazz, “assuming you think it’ll help.”
“Yeah. Do that,” Jazz said distractedly. An idea had begun to form in the back of his mind, nagging at him, gnawing through the boundary between subconscious and conscious. He tried to ignore it, tried to push it away. No good. It was coming. Whether he wanted it or not. “I’m going to think a bit more,” he said.
As they left the bathroom and entered the master bedroom, Jazz heard a familiar voice. He looked over to see Deputy Erickson instructing one of the crime-scene techs to dust the bedroom window. When Erickson noticed Jazz looking at him, he sneered.
Jazz wasn’t about to let that go. “Hey, Erickson! Did you just happen to be the first guy on the scene this time, too?”
The entire room went silent. Every cop in the room turned to look at Erickson. The deputy had gone bright red; his lips moved and his throat bobbed, but no sound came out.
G. William grabbed Jazz by the elbow and yanked him out into the hallway. Jazz heard Erickson finally squawk, “I don’t have to listen to that kind of—” before the sheriff slammed the door.
“What the hell was that just now?” he demanded, shaking Jazz. “Do you suspect Erickson? Is that what you’re getting at? Because for your information, he was not first on the scene tonight. Hanson was.”
Of course, of course. Jazz had seen Erickson at Ginny’s memorial with his own two eyes. He couldn’t have been first on the scene this time.
Jazz stared into G. William’s darting, feverish eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m just dead tired. And he just rubs me the wrong way.”
“The whole world rubs you the wrong way, Jasper Francis.”
“Should I go apologize to him?” The very thought made Jazz’s guts squirm.
“No, no. Let it blow over.” G. William guided him to the front door. “Sorry I got a little physical there.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m juggling a lot. And I have to tell you…Jazz, I’ve been trying to keep a lid on this, but I can’t do that anymore. The feds are sending some people from Quantico tomorrow morning, and Atlanta PD is sending someone, too. There’s gonna be an interagency task force. I have to hold a press conference. Tonight. Already got my guys setting it up. I have to put the word out. Warn whoever the next victim is.”
The next victim…A blond, aged twenty-six. A secretary. Initials would be B.Q. Injected with drain cleaner again, sexually assaulted again, posed in a kitchen…
“I understand,” Jazz said.
“I’ll leave the squad car at your house. In case things get, you know, ugly.”
Translation: In case a vigilante mob decides that the return of Billy Dent’s crimes can only be exorcised by eliminating the descendant of Billy Dent himself. The old Dent house would burn pretty well.
“Got it.”
“You want to be there? At the press conference?”
Jazz stared at G. William as if the man had turned blue and grown a third nipple in the center of his forehead.
“I can say that you’re not on the suspect list. I can say you’re helping us.”
“No. I appreciate it, G. William, I really do. But…” The spotlight. The center of attention. One more thing he shared with Billy: an aversion to public attention.
“I got it, Jazz. I understand. I’ll do what I can to keep the heat down.”
They shook hands. In the sheriff’s grip, Jazz felt not strength, but desperation. Then he hopped in the Jeep. He needed to be alone with his thoughts.
He headed for the Hideout.
CHAPTER 28
Halfway to the Hideout, the Jeep’s radio—tuned to a local hard-rock station—broke in for a news brief, and Jazz heard G. William’s voice. He pictured the sheriff standing at a hastily arranged podium on the steps outside the sheriff’s office, probably wiping sweat from his brow with one of those special handkerchiefs, even though it wasn’t remotely hot out. Lights would flash; there would be a babble of voices from the reporters present, as G. William announced…
“…the disturbing news that the recent murders in Lobo’s Nod—and one more out of state—have been conclusively linked…”
Jazz bit his bottom lip. More flashes of cameras now. The babble transmutes to an excited undercurrent. Did he just say—?
“…believe these crimes to be the work of one man, going by the name ‘the Impressionist.’ This Impressionist is duplicating crimes originally perpetrated many years ago by William Cornelius Dent.…”
And that was it. The crowd, as the old saying promises, goes wild. An endless strobe effect of camera flashes, a sonic hodgepodge of shouted questions, demands for clarification, G. William struggling to make himself not only heard, but also understood above the sudden, crazed din. Doug Weathers at the head of the crowd, chortling with glee, already imagining himself being made up for his next appearance on national television, dusting off his anecdotes about Billy, maybe adding in a bit about the time he tussled with Billy’s son, who was handcuffed.
Jazz switched off the radio with a savage jab at the power button. That was it, then. It was a done deal. The name Billy Dent had been invoked and, like a magic spell from some dusty old tome, it had conjured visions of past degradations from modern history’s vilest serial killer. The demons of press coverage and the attention of the mob would ride the spell’s effects into the real world, and Jazz’s life—never normal to begin with—would be upended yet again.
He didn’t know if this time he was strong enough to survive it.
Piloting the Jeep through the trees that lined the dirt road to the Hideout, Jazz caught a glimpse of Howie’s little electric-blue Honda parked up ahead. It couldn’t be Howie—it had to be Connie, still taking advantage of having Howie’s car in her possession.
He parked the Jeep and took a few deep breaths. The image of Irene Heller posed in her shower like that, her limbs arrayed and propped through a careful arrangement of count
erweights and nearly invisible monofilament, wouldn’t go away. Her entire body was an accusation.
He’d seen much worse in his life. The Impressionist was a killer, true, but the crime scene was meticulous, and almost neat. A pinprick in the neck where the drain cleaner had been injected. And the severed fingers. No other violence done to the bodies. Sure, it was painful, but it was quick. Clean. If you had to be killed by a serial killer, having the Impressionist as your killer wasn’t the worst way to go, Jazz decided. Especially if you wanted an open casket at your funeral.
Still. Irene Heller. Positioned naked in the shower.
This was not your fault, G. William had told him, and for a moment, Jazz had believed him.
But it wasn’t true. If Jazz had been smarter or more insightful or…or…more something, then Irene Heller would not be dead, and her husband would not be telling their two kids that, hey, you know how you just went to a vigil for that teacher? Well, funny thing, that. Guess what? Mommy’s got something in common with that teacher now.
He slowly climbed out of the Jeep and went to the Hideout. “Hi, honey!” he announced with fake cheer. “I’m home!”
Connie sat on the beanbag chair, her long legs tucked up under her. The only light came through the milky plastic over the one window. In the near-dark, she looked like a statue carved out of walnut.
She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him. “Let’s talk about it.”
His smile did not falter. “About what? There’s nothing to talk about. Hey, if Howie suddenly takes a turn for the worse, you think his parents’ll let you keep the car?”
Connie’s jaw dropped at his cruel humor. “What did you say?”
“Just thinking out loud,” he said lightly.
She pushed herself up out of the chair and slapped him across the face before he could react. They stared at each other.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. He kissed her forehead and rocked her back and forth. “I’m a jerk,” he whispered.
“No, you’re not,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest.
“Yeah, I am.”
“No, you’re…” She tensed up in his arms and then pulled away. “You’re not a jerk,” she whispered, but her expression said otherwise. “You’re not a jerk,” she said again, once more folding her arms over her chest, her stance defensive. “So you’re just acting like a jerk. You’re Billying me!”
“Con—”
“Yeah, con is right! You’re conning me! You got me all pissed off about your little joke so that I wouldn’t think about what happened tonight. Jesus!”
“I’m sorry.”
He reached for her, but she moved away. “I can’t believe you pulled that on me. I left the vigil early, and I’ve been sitting here, waiting for you to come, because I knew you would be upset about that woman dying, and I was going to be here for you, and you act like I’m a…like I’m a, a—what’s the word he used?—a prospect, and you Billy me. Me!”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “It was just reflex.”
“I just wanted to be here for you,” she said. “Why the hell do you have to turn that against me?”
“I know.” He opened his arms again, and she came to him. She felt good against him, the warmth of her, the pounding of her heart against his body as he held her tight. “I know,” he said, pressing his lips to the top of her head, careful to avoid her hair as he kissed her scalp between the intricate sculpting of cornrows. “I don’t want to Billy you,” he said, and she squeezed him back.
They snuggled on the beanbag chair, Connie occasionally shivering. He tightened his arms around her and leaned in, speaking softly in her ear. “I bet I could warm you up.”
She twisted around to glare at him. “Nice try, smooth talker. But these legs are closed for business.” As if to drive the point home, she shifted, locking her ankles together.
He felt pretty confident he could convince her otherwise. Before Connie had come into his life, he’d come perilously close to sweet-talking girls into his bed, some of them much older than he was. He thought of Lana, for example. She could be his, and that was nothing that any other teenage boy wouldn’t do.
But he wasn’t any other teenage boy. Schooled by Billy Dent, Jazz had an advantage the average teen could never have: a sociopath’s ability to fake absolutely any emotion with utterly convincing authority. He had always backed out at the last minute, never sure why until one day it all clicked for him, and he realized that backing off was a self-preservation instinct. That sex could lead to horror for him, and he couldn’t risk it. Ever since that realization, he’d been careful. He remained—like so many other boys—a virgin desperate not to be. Unlike so many other boys, he was also terrified not to be.
Connie was safe. With Connie, things were different. He could be with her without fear because he didn’t feel Billy’s presence looming over them. Because…
He knew why. He felt uncomfortable admitting it, but maybe it was just Connie herself. Maybe he’d resisted convincing her to unlock those ankles not for fear of sex, but due to his sneaking suspicion that, even though she’d never used the words, she loved him, and he couldn’t bear the thought of seducing her virginity away.
Or, simpler than that, was it because he loved her?
He wasn’t sure. He just knew that he didn’t want to talk her into doing anything she wasn’t ready to do, no matter how badly he wanted to do it.
He chuckled. At least in this he was a normal teenager—any straight male snuggling with Connie would be desperate to get those jeans off.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Share.”
He rummaged around and found an old space blanket he’d stashed here against the coming colder weather. “Really, it was nothing.”
She let it go for a moment as they arranged the blanket around themselves, then said, “Tell me about the woman.”
Jazz sighed. “Her name was Irene Heller.…” He told her everything he knew—the things G. William had told him at the house and the things he’d figured out on his own just by observing the Impressionist’s work.
She craned her neck and planted a kiss on his jawline. “You can’t blame yourself. It’s not like you could have known.”
“I could have done better. I could have narrowed it down more. I could have convinced G. William to put out an alert to the media—”
“Do something useful, then. Stop complaining about it and figure it out. And if you can’t figure it out, then realize that that’s not your fault—no one made you the Grand High Poo-bah of Lobo’s Nod.”
He let her kiss the side of his neck. Her lips were soft, plush. He closed his eyes, but when he did that, he saw not just Irene Heller, but also the whole roster of his father’s victims, all of them accusing him: Why didn’t you save us, Jazz? You knew what your father was. Why didn’t you save us?
“Think about it logically,” Connie went on after a moment. “Who could it be? Do you have any thoughts?”
He cast his mind back to his scribbled notebook pages. “A few. But none of them totally gel for me. Not yet. And the big thing”—he hesitated for a moment—“I guess the thing that really worries me is that I’ve only considered people I know about. Which makes sense, but you know, it’s not like there’s a rule or something that says the killer has to be someone I know or someone I met. Even in a little town like the Nod, there’s a lot of people I don’t know. And people passing through. Anybody could be the killer.
“I have to do better,” he said, a frightening idea already forming in his head. He tried not to let it out. “I have to stop him—”
“Jazz.” She pulled at him, rolling him over so that they were face-to-face. “Stop it. It’s not your fault. You didn’t kill that woman. You didn’t kill Ginny.”
“I might as well have.”
“That’s—”
“No. No, listen. If I could
stop it and I didn’t, then it’s like I killed her myself, right? Isn’t that true?”
“But you couldn’t stop it. You—”
He stared at the ceiling. “What if I could have, Con? What if I could have done something more and some part of me, something deep down, some Billy part of me, didn’t? What if I let her die?”
She stroked his arm, squeezing his shoulder, then working down to his wrist, then back up, soothing him. “That’s not how it works. You told me it’s not about killing just any random person. Serial killers have a type, right?”
He flinched. He didn’t want to go down this particular road. The fact was, yes, serial killers generally had a specific kind of victim they felt compelled to kill. Billy had been so damn hard to catch because his victim profile was broad and loose—a whole range of women fit into it, with one notable exception: Not a single one of his victims had been African American.
Jazz looked at Connie, at her lustrous skin. He couldn’t tell her that however he felt about her now, he’d originally been drawn to her because she was one of the few girls he could be certain Billy hadn’t programmed him to want to kill.
He’d fallen for her because, as best he could tell, she was safe.
“They have types,” he said eventually. “But Billy broke a lot of those rules. And he…” He thought of Dr. Shinkeski from the TV show, who suddenly no longer seemed pathetic and laughable. “What if I’m a new kind of serial killer? Billy always said he wanted me to be something new. Something special.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re more than what your father wants you to be. You’re you. He doesn’t control you.”
Jazz wished that were true. Connie was brilliant and wonderful and empathetic, but no matter how amazing she was, she couldn’t understand what it had been like to grow up as Billy Dent’s son. Billy didn’t have supernatural powers that allowed him to control people, but it sure felt like he did. To his victims, he was a seductive force, an apparently sympathetic, compassionate resource that promised succor and aid, only to turn into a hellhound. He was a pitcher plant, luring in prey with sweet promises, only to devour it.
