I Hunt Killers

by Barry Lyga

  “I figured someone would shank you. Try to prove he’s a big man by knocking off Billy Dent.”

  “Well, now”—Billy’s slow drawl became even more syrupy—“I ain’t sayin’ there ain’t been no—whatchacallem?—​altercations in the past couple years. There’s definitely been what I’d call a, well, a breakin’-in period.”

  He produced a smile that—to anyone else—would have seemed full of genuine warmth. Jazz remembered it from the night Billy had shown him how to saw through a knee joint in under five minutes. (First you gotta get under the kneecap, what your doctors an’ such call the patella, see?)

  “But now me an’ the folks in here get along just fine. They get me and I get them. Prison ain’t so bad for people like us, Jasper.”

  Too late, Jazz tried to keep his spine from stiffening at the comment, but he’d reacted already, and Billy had seen it, had seen that he’d crawled right under Jazz’s skin. Jazz bit back the expected retort—I’m nothing like you—because he knew Billy already had a counterattack ready.

  “I’m glad you’re doing well,” he said instead, and pretended to mean it.

  Billy paused, trying to decide whether or not to believe him. “I don’t think you’d be wanting me dead, anyway. Know what set me off on my prospecting? My own daddy died. God, I loved that man. When he died, I just went and did as I pleased. Happens to a lot like us: Gein and Speck and de Rais. And me. And maybe you. How about that? Wouldn’t that be a kick, if you got your wish and I died and all it did was…” He trailed off and stared. “But enough of that morbid talk.” He smiled. “When a man’s done his life’s work—and done it well, Jasper—he can go into his retirement a happy man.”

  Jazz snorted laughter. Billy could gas about “retirement” all he wanted, but they both knew the old man would be infinitely happier on the outside. Prospecting.

  “Is that what this is to you? Retirement? Came a little earlier than you expected, didn’t it?”

  Billy smiled that warm killer’s smile again. “Did it?”

  For long moments, they gazed at each other across the table and through the imaginary fence. Billy unfolded his hands and rested his fists on the table. Jazz could see new prison tats on his father’s knuckles—fresh, from the looks of them. Raw.

  L-O-V-E spelled out on his right fist. F-E-A-R spelled on the left.

  “Nice ink,” Jazz said.

  A shrug. “Brand-new. Glad you like ’em. Look here: You ain’t gotta worry about anyone killin’ your daddy in here, Jasper. Ain’t gonna happen. I guaran-damn-tee it. I got respect in here. You talked about that ‘pecking order.’ Well, it don’t peck me. They save that for the real bastards. It’s not like I hurt kids.”

  Jazz bristled. That liar! That hypocrite! He was probably giving Billy exactly what he wanted, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t care what kind of mind game Billy Dent was playing; he couldn’t let a comment like that go.

  “No kids? What about George Harper?”

  “George Harper…” Billy stared at the ceiling as if trying to place the name. Which was bull, because Billy had a photographic memory and total recall. “Oh. Right,” he said after a moment or two of pretense. “Hell, son—that kid looked nineteen, twenty, easy. You saw the pictures. You know he didn’t look fifteen.” He shook his head, clearly pleased with the reaction he’d managed to provoke in Jazz. “They grow up so fast, you know? Like you did, Jasper-boy. You ever think of having kids, Jasper? Giving me a grandbaby? Something for me to live for? I know I got a bunch of life sentences, but with science the way it is, hell, maybe I’ll live ’em all. What do you think?”

  The idea of having children nauseated Jazz. To pass down the genetic mistake that was his grandmother’s madness, his father’s madness, his own madness…No. That would not happen. He would not create the next generation’s Billy Dent.

  “I bet I know what you’re thinking, Jasper,” Billy said, his voice low and seductive and knowing. It was the perfect sociopath’s voice, and Jazz hated it because it was so like his own. He’d heard himself use it with teachers who needed to be persuaded of things. With G. William and Melissa Hoover. Hell, he might as well just admit it—with everyone. It was as natural as blinking, as natural as falling asleep.

  “You’re thinking you ain’t gonna give the world no more Dents. I hear that. I understand. But it ain’t always your decision. You got a little piece of tail you like to bang? Handsome boy like you, all silver-tongued, those little girls don’t stand a chance, Jasper. They line up for a taste of your dick, don’t they? Don’t they?”

  Jazz shook his head before he could stop himself. Damn it! He had sworn to himself that he would give his father neither information nor satisfaction, and now, with one movement, he’d surrendered both.

  “You ain’t lookin’ at the line, then. That’s good. You got one girl. One special girl. That’s good, Jasper. Men like us, we like our consistency, you know what I mean? Fewer surprises that way. You plow a lotta fields, you never know where there’s gonna be a stone. You stick to one field, you get to know it. You know the stones and the ruts and the pits.

  “But here’s the thing, Jasper. I bet you’re a nice, responsible kid, ’cause I raised you that way, but are you always the one buyin’ the rubbers? Hmm? Or maybe she’s on that pill? ’Cause you can’t always trust ’em, Jasper. You look at them rubbers real close-like, see? You watch her take that pill, Jasper. Hell”—he roared with laughter—“how you think you was born?

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” Billy went on, leaning forward, leaning in so far that Jazz thought for sure that he must have crossed the imaginary fence—he must have!—but the door stayed closed and no one came in to rescue him. “You were the biggest surprise of my life, Jasper. I was so angry at your momma. At first. Won’t tell you the things I considered doing to her because they might disturb you, boy, and I ain’t gonna do that. I know how sensitive you are. But then you were born, Jasper. You came sliding out easy as you please, didn’t cause your momma any pain, hardly any labor. Just come sliding right out, practically into my arms, my boy, my son, my future. So I forgave your momma for what she done, for her deception.”

  “What did you do to Mom?” Jazz asked, his voice strangled, his throat tight. He didn’t mean to ask it. He didn’t want to ask it, but he was helpless, wrapped up in Billy Dent’s spell, just like all of Billy’s other victims, for surely Jazz was as much a victim as the rest of them. Surely that was true?

  “Do? What did I do to your mother?” A shrug. “Nothing.”

  —just like cutting—

  —good boy—

  “What did you make me do?” Jazz whispered.

  Billy grinned.

  “What did you make me do? Did you make me kill my mother?”

  Billy laughed. “Don’t you remember?”

  But he didn’t. He couldn’t. His memory—his poor, abused, fragmented memory. He could remember Billy skinning Rusty, could remember the quicklime lessons, could remember so much horror, but couldn’t remember the most important thing of all. He couldn’t remember—

  —do it!

  —cut—

  the knife

  It was Mom. I cut Mom with the knife. Billy made me.

  Jazz felt the room spinning around him. This was crazy. A mistake. A huge one. He was insane to have come here. Billy Dent was the master of manipulation, the king of not just the penitentiary, but also of the psychic spaces between father and son. He was lord of Jazz’s own mind. After all, hadn’t Billy built that mind? Hadn’t he sired Jazz, raised him, shaped and guided him like any father would? Wasn’t Jazz his father’s creature?

  Billy. Billy in the past, urging Jazz with the knife. Billy in the present, grinning still, now whispering: “What’s her name, Jasper? Tell Dear Old Dad your little pussy’s name. I want to think of how happy you are, and I need to have a name to go with it. Tell me her name.”

  Connie, Jazz thought, but he would not let himself say it. He couldn’t sully her name by
letting it anywhere near Billy Dent’s ears and brain. He couldn’t bear the thought of Billy Dent knowing that name, much less speaking it out loud.

  “Tell me her name, son.”

  Connie…

  And that brought to mind what she’d said before. About how he didn’t have to be his dad, how he could rise above his own upbringing. Sons aren’t their fathers. Not the good, not the bad. Sons get second chances. You don’t have to be what your dad is. You don’t have his eyes, and you don’t have to have his life.

  “I’m a virgin,” he told Billy.

  Billy snorted with disgust and leaned back. Jazz felt as though the room had suddenly been flooded with pure oxygen—he could breathe so much more easily now.

  “No. No, you ain’t. You gonna lie to me, we ain’t got nothing to discuss,” Billy said.

  Jazz didn’t care that Billy thought it was a lie. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it had broken the spell, made it possible for Jazz to think again.

  It had put power back on Jazz’s side of the imaginary fence.

  “I’m sorry,” he said with as much contrition as he could muster. “I shouldn’t have lied. I’m not a virgin. Her name’s”—Heidi Linda Rae Delores Juanita Chelsea Tonya—“Tonya.”

  “Tonya?” Billy frowned. “Killed me a Tonya once. Perfect little titties. Fake redhead. Hate that.”

  “I remember,” Jazz said. “I remember the trophy.”

  Pleased, Billy leaned forward again. “Tell me.”

  “Leather gloves,” Jazz said. “Kid gloves. So brown they were almost red. They were so smooth and soft. I remember imagining that was what a woman felt like.”

  Billy chuckled. “You got my memory, that’s for sure, Jasper. But you got your momma’s way with words. Damn, I miss her.”

  “I used to put them on. In the rumpus room. I never told you because I thought you’d be mad.”

  “Playing with your daddy’s toys.”

  “I would wear the gloves and touch my cheek. My lips. I would imagine that’s what it would feel like—”

  “To be with a woman,” Billy finished, his eyes dancing. “And now? Now that you’ve been with a woman? Is that what it was like?”

  “No. It’s better. Better. But not as good as it can be. I know. I remember that from what you taught me. Sometimes, when I’m with”—Connie—“Tonya, I want to see what you told me about: the fear.”

  “It’ll come, son,” Billy whispered. “In time, it’ll come. I promise you.”

  They stared at each other across the table for long, long moments. Jazz wondered how long he could keep it up. How long could he pretend to be in Billy’s thrall? How long could he pretend to be aroused by these thoughts? Worst of all—was he pretending? Could anyone really fake this?

  “Anyway, Jasper,” Billy said, breaking the suspense. “I’m glad you’re gettin’ your dick wet. I should’ve brought you a girl a long time ago. That was neglectful of me, and I apologize for it. For that and nothing else.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “What brings you to see Dear Old Dad, kiddo?” Billy leaned as far back as he could, given that he was tethered to the table and to his own ankle chain. Somehow, he managed to look relaxed and at peace. “I raised you to think of yourself; first, last, and always. So you gotta want something from me.”

  “I do.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “I…” Was this the right thing to do? He’d managed to build up a rapport of sorts with Billy over the past few minutes. As soon as he asked for help in catching the Impressionist…wouldn’t Billy realize he’d been had? Wouldn’t he—enraged—lunge for Jazz across the table, imaginary fence be damned?

  Well, maybe. And in that case, Jazz would see his father beaten to within an inch of his life. So it was really a win-win scenario.

  “I need your help. To find someone.”

  “Really?” Billy actually seemed interested. “Who?”

  “This might sound a little strange. So hear me out, okay? I’m sort of…I’m sort of trying to find a serial killer.”

  Jazz had expected either a burst of laughter or a snarl of rage. He got neither. Billy’s grin just widened. “You don’t say.”

  “Do you watch the news in here at all? Do you know about the Impressionist?”

  “The Impressionist.” Billy said the name slowly, drawing it out to infinite syllables. “Can’t say as I do.”

  “He’s copying your first kills. Right down to the drain cleaner. Right down to the initials of the victims.”

  Jazz watched his father carefully for his reaction, but Billy’s face remained placidly—sociopathically—still.

  Billy nodded slowly. “Why are you looking for this gentleman?”

  To save my soul. If I have one in the first place. “Honestly? I’m helping the cops.”

  Now would come the rage.

  “Interesting,” Billy mused. “Very interesting.”

  “That’s all you have to say? I’m trying to help the cops catch someone like you and you think it’s interesting?”

  “Nah. That part’s boring. Totally natural for you to be checkin’ out the other side of the equation. Perfect sense. Hell, I spent three weeks at the police academy when I was a little older than you, Jasper. I get it.”

  “Oh?” Jazz forced himself to show nothing but casual, impassive interest, while inside he fumed. Billy had been researching the cops, trying to learn their secrets. Jazz was doing something else entirely—trying to figure out how a killer’s mind worked. Trying to figure out if it was the same as his own.

  “What’s interesting is that you ain’t tellin’ me the whole truth. You ain’t doin’ this to help the cops. You don’t give a damn about them. You’re doing this for you. To figure yourself out. To see what makes you tick.”

  “No.”

  “More important, Jasper, you’re doing this because you have to. Dog gotta hunt, son. You go find yourself a three-legged bird dog and then take it out hunting and you watch it fall over trying to point out the bird. It’ll happen every time, damn sure. You’re a hunter, born and bred. You got the scent. You want your prey, boy. You want to go prospecting. You need it.”

  “No.”

  Billy said, “It waits inside you. It lurks, you see? It waits and it pads around like a big cat, and when you least expect it, it comes up behind you. So don’t kid yourself. It’s there all along. It’s there. It’s just waiting, is all.”

  “I’m not a killer.”

  “Sure you are. You just ain’t killed no one yet.”

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “Heh. I should send you on your way empty-handed. No one held my hand and taught me how to play. No, sir. But I know how kids are today. Gotta have their parents doing everything for them. Helicopter parents, right?” He chuckled. “Read about that in Newsweek, same issue with my picture in it. So, yeah, I’ll help you, Jasper. But you’re going to help me, too.”

  Jazz felt despair wash over him. A sociopath never gives anything away for free, and Jazz couldn’t unleash Billy Dent on the world.

  “Forget it,” Jazz said, the bitter tang of regret gathering in his mouth with each syllable. “I won’t help you get out of here. I’m not doing that.”

  “Who said I wanted you to?” Billy looked mortified by the very thought of it. “I told you, Jasper—I’m a king in here. Why would a king forsake his throne and his subjects? I ain’t going anywhere. Well”—he paused, considering—​“except probably in a body bag, but that’s a ways off, I think.”

  “Then what do you want? I’m not smuggling stuff in here for you—”

  “Don’t want you to.”

  “Then what?” Jazz threw up his hands in frustration. “What do you want?”

  And Billy told him.

  CHAPTER 31

  Jazz told his father as much about the Impressionist as he could, leaving out no details. He watched Billy carefully, wary of his reaction. Billy might be flattered that someone had de
cided to “honor” him in this fashion, or he might be enraged that another killer dared to walk in his footsteps. It could go either way.

  But Billy gave no indication of how the information impacted him. He simply leaned back as far as the manacles would allow and closed his eyes, a slight, almost beatific smile on his lips, a smile that did not waver a micron as Jazz recounted the events of the last week.

  When he finished, Billy took in a deep breath and exhaled through flaring nostrils, his eyes still closed. “Well, now,” he said quietly, “this is sure an interestin’ dilemma. And an interestin’ gentleman, that’s for sure.” His eyes popped open and he yawned, as though he’d just had a relaxing, refreshing nap. “Not sure what I can do for you, though.”

  “You know. You have admirers out there.” He thought of the FREE BILLY DENT! conspiracy theorists outside Wammaket’s walls. “Sociopath groupies. Junkies for this stuff. I know. Women want to marry you. There’s websites dedicated to you. People write you fan mail.”

  “That they do,” Billy agreed. “I don’t read most of it. It’s all the same junk: ‘Billy, I pray to you every night to give me the strength to do what you done.’ ‘Mr. Dent, my blood is your blood.’ ‘Oh, Billy, you’re the only real man on the planet.’ Hell, I know that. Don’t need letters to tell me. Some of them, they say they want to be like me. They say they want to learn from me. Be my protégé. You know what? I don’t need a protégé. Already got one. You.”

  Jazz ignored that last bit. “He’s obviously an admirer of yours. If I could look at the letters…”

  “Got rid of ’em. Like I said—I don’t care.”

  Jazz seethed, but he forced himself to remain calm. “Maybe you remember one in particular—”

  “Guarantee you he ain’t been in touch with me.” Billy stroked his jaw with FEAR. “He’s thinkin’ he’s his own man. He’s doin’ a whatchacallit—a theme and variation. Like jazz musicians, playin’ the same melody but makin’ it their own tune.”