by Barry Lyga
“Like rappers, sampling old rock songs?”
Billy snorted. “Whatever it takes for you to understand. Sure, like them hip-hop idiots. And he’s doin’ a fine job. No one’s got away from him. Not easy, you know. Most of those jackasses—guys like Gacy and Bundy and even that peckerhead Dahmer—most of ’em, at some point they let someone go. Either on purpose or by accident, someone gets away, and that’s when the downfall starts. Not me, though.” His eyes glittered, the coldest sapphires in the world. “Not me. Never let a one of ’em get away. Never screwed up.”
“Like this guy,” Jazz said, dragging the conversation back to the topic at hand.
“Well, he’s just starting out. Any fool can kill—what?—five people and get away with it. If he’s still out there batting a thousand after twenty or thirty, then come talk to me. I’ll be appropriately impressed. Bake him a cake or something.” Billy lit up. “There’s your answer, Jasper. You don’t gotta catch this guy. Just wait. He’ll trip on his own feet at some point, and then you got him.”
“That’s hardly an acceptable solution,” Jazz said calmly.
Billy shrugged. “Why not? Five dead, fifteen dead, fifty dead…Everyone dies. That’s a fact. The timing of it is just a detail.”
“I don’t want any more people to die.”
“Really?” Billy leaned in close, almost touching the invisible fence again. “Really, Jasper? ’Cause let me tell you something. I think you don’t really care about these people. And you know how I know that?”
“Tell me,” Jazz said tonelessly. But inside, his heart pounded at the idea of being psychoanalyzed by the man who knew him best.
“Because these people, these…these mythical people ‘out there’ somewhere, the ones he ain’t killed yet…You don’t know them, Jasper. They ain’t nothing to you. So why should you care if he kills them? Right now, someone’s dyin’.” Billy thumped the table lightly with his fist, the LOVE moving down, then up. “And now.” Thump went LOVE again. “And now.” Thump. “Some beggar in India, some Mexican on the border, some girl in New York City thinkin’ she’s gonna be a model but just got turned out to whoring instead. All of them dyin’ now”—thump—“and now”—thump—“and now”—thump—“and now”—thump—“and what do you care? What do I care?”
“Just because they’re abstract doesn’t mean they don’t matter,” Jazz said, forcing his voice not to quake or tremble or otherwise betray emotion. Because Billy was right. To a degree. People died all the time. He didn’t know them or even know about them. So did they matter?
People matter. People are real.
“You don’t care about savin’ his prospects. You care about yourself. About makin’ sure no one thinks you were involved. About provin’ you can be a regular citizen like all the others. That’s what you care about, Jasper.”
It was the truth—not a truth he wanted or needed to hear, but a truth nonetheless. But maybe it wasn’t the whole truth. Maybe there was more to the truth than Billy’s cynicism.
“My motives don’t matter,” he told Billy. “You agreed to help. Are you gonna help or not?”
Billy clucked his tongue. “So impatient. I ain’t seen my boy in years. Can you blame me for dragging things out a little?” He flashed a full-on angelic grin, like a child caught swiping a cookie.
Jazz would have none of it. He stared at his father.
“Oh, all right,” Billy said, slumping in his chair. “You ain’t no fun. Look, you got to learn how to think like this guy. Shouldn’t be hard for you, Jasper. He’s thinking like me, and you’re part of me. He’s an Impressionist. Don’t you know anything about Impressionism?”
Jazz shook his head.
“What are they teaching you in school these days?” Billy said in his best parody of a concerned parent. Jazz had the feeling that Billy would—if he could—kill every last teacher in Lobo’s Nod just to make his point. “Impressionism ain’t about what is. It’s about the overall impression of things, see? It’s about the effect of something on the eye, not the exact details. You follow?”
“I guess.”
“Now this last, poor victim, this poor Heller woman…” Billy did a passable job of sounding mournful about her passing. “She wasn’t exactly a maid, but she was close enough, see? That’s what mattered to him.”
“He also killed her too soon. You had a delay between your fourth and fifth.”
“So? Go to a museum sometime, son, and look at a Monet. Get real close, as close as they’ll let you, and then you tell me what day it was when good ol’ Claude painted one brushstroke as opposed to another. Timing don’t matter. Not to this guy. He cares about the overall effect.”
That made sense. But it didn’t resolve the essential problem.
“How does that help us figure out who his next victim is?”
Billy sighed and looked skyward, as if asking the Good Lord why he had to do all the work himself. “Look at ways he can twist the details, son, but still keep the overall effect. Like your teacher—she wasn’t exactly an actress, but close enough. Same thing here: He’s not going after some blond piece of tail in an office building. He’s looking for the secretary of the Rotary Club, or the gal who makes coffee at the PTA meetings.”
“But—”
“But nothing!” Billy said, showing some heat for the first time. “This guy’s being accurate, Jasper. Not precise. He bumped off some two-bit coffee-and-hash slinger from the local grease pit. My girl, she was a waitress at a fancy bistro right near the beach. Lot of tourist trade. Made more in tips in one night than this guy’s girl made in a week.” Billy spoke possessively, as if he owned his prospects. In a way, maybe he did. His contempt for the Impressionist was suddenly all too obvious. “I killed Vanessa Dawes. Beautiful Vanessa.” He sighed and leaned back, his expression that of a man remembering a gourmet meal. “She was an actress. Just starting out, sure, but she’d been on TV, and she had promise. This guy, who’d he kill? Your drama teacher? Your drama teacher? And that’s supposed to be the same thing? Are you kidding me?”
Excitement and anger both coursed through Jazz at the same time, and he struggled not to let either one show. This was it—what he’d been looking for. He should have seen it all along: The Impressionist was sticking to the spirit of Billy’s crimes, changing the letter to suit his own needs. Each victim was so close to Billy’s that Jazz hadn’t seen the differences. How had he missed that?
“Find the victim and we find him,” Jazz said.
“Maybe. But you also have to figure out how to identify this guy. He’s a part of our little hometown, sonny boy.” Billy grinned. “He’s gettin’ his breakfast at the Coff-E-Shop and probably checkin’ books outta the library. He feels comfortable in Lobo’s Nod. Killin’ so many there…Yeah, he feels comfortable there.”
A thought buzzed along the back of Jazz’s mind. “You think he’s a native? Someone from town who knew you, maybe? Or from nearby?”
Billy shrugged again. “Don’t really matter. What matters is, he fits in. Doesn’t stand out. That’s our biggest and best skill, Jasper. People think it’s knowing how to cut up a body or seducing a pretty little thing into your car. Nah. That’s bull. That’s stuff you can learn on the Internet. Our real skill is blending in. That’s what we’re good at.” He flashed a grin. “They never see us comin’, son, ’cause we look just like they do. We look human.”
Jazz’s mind was spinning. This was it—the key to catching the Impressionist.
He had to tell G. William right away. He stood up. “Are we done already?” Billy asked, hurt. “I ain’t had time to ask you about your Little League games and your soccer practice.”
Jazz looked down at his father’s hands. LOVE. FEAR.
“I have to go.” With great difficulty, he said, “Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.” He called to the CO at the door.
“Don’t forget our agreement, Jasper,” his father said as the COs came in. “Don’t you dare forget.”
>
“I won’t,” Jazz promised. As he made for the door, the COs unshackled Billy from the table and hoisted him to his feet by his elbows.
“Jasper.”
Jazz was out the door, but he turned to look back at his father—manacled, surrounded by trained, armed men. And still utterly in charge.
“Yeah?”
“The way you came in here…Wearing your armor, the coldest, baddest son of a bitch on the planet. The way you agreed with me about things. Slinging that line of bull-puckey about the kid gloves and all that. You were manipulating me. And did a damn fine job of it, too.”
The words and the sincerity behind them slid down Jazz’s spine like an icicle threading his vertebrae. “I’m not you.”
“You’re better,” Billy said.
“I’m not evil.” Saying that to anyone else, under any other circumstances, would have felt hyperbolic. Here and now and to Billy, it felt like not enough.
Billy’s lips curled in a smirk. “Want to know the difference between good and evil, Jasper?” Without waiting for an answer, Billy raised his right hand—LOVE—and snapped his fingers.
“That’s it, kid. That’s the difference. You won’t even know you’ve crossed the line until it’s way back in your rearview mirror.”
“That’s enough, Billy,” one of the COs growled, and they dragged him through the other door. If Jazz expected his father to shout out one last parting shot, he was disappointed: Billy Dent vanished—silent but for the rattle and clank of his chains—into the depths of Wammaket State Penitentiary.
Deputy Hanson said nothing the whole way home, once again letting his lead foot and the siren do all the speaking for him. The constant wail and blare sledgehammered their way into Jazz’s skull and bred a nice little headache there. He tried to ignore it, focusing instead on making himself heard over the shriek as he talked to G. William on Howie’s phone.
“…and he thinks she won’t be what we think of as a traditional secretary,” he went on, “maybe not even in a position that goes by the title of secretary, but something that could be construed as, you know, secretarial.”
G. William’s relief was palpable, even over the phone. “You just gave us a whole hell of a lot more work,” he told Jazz, “but it’s the kind of work I can get behind.”
He shut his eyes and tried to exorcise the ghost of Billy’s presence, but the rhythm of the siren somehow merged with Billy’s voice and kept howling at him over and over:
I think you don’t really care about these people.
You won’t even know you’ve crossed the line until it’s way back in your rearview mirror.
I don’t need a protégé. Already got one.
Sure you are. You just ain’t killed no one yet.
Jazz swallowed hard. Maybe that meant he hadn’t killed his own mother.
Or maybe Billy was just playing with him. He remembered what he’d told Connie: You show any weakness to a serial killer and they live inside you after that.
The sky had gone the hard blue of a new bruise by the time Hanson got him back to the police station and sneaked him in through a rear entrance. Jazz checked in with G. William, who was too busy to talk, coordinating a whole new effort to find the Impressionist’s next victim. So he slipped out through the funeral home to avoid the press and drove home in the Jeep.
A great sense of relief washed over him as he drove. He’d done it. He’d bearded the lion—the dragon—in his den and come away not only alive, but with valuable treasure: the information that would stop the Impressionist. Jazz felt newly alive. Like a whole new human being, with a whole new life ahead of him.
He noticed something in the center console of the Jeep and reached for it at a red light. It was Jeff Fulton’s business card. Jazz thought of Fulton’s impassioned speech at Ginny’s service and sighed. Would it really hurt anyone to spend five minutes with the guy? Jazz didn’t want to establish a precedent for talking to the grieving families of his father’s victims, but there was no reason he couldn’t show a little kindness to the man. He would call Fulton in the morning. It was something no serial killer would ever do, something no sociopath would ever imagine doing. Just thinking of it made Jazz feel good.
At home, he was surprised to find the crowds of reporters gone. A lone cop still sat in a cruiser in the driveway, and Jazz approached to ask what had happened to the mob.
“Tanner sent over a bunch of guys a couple of hours ago. Told everyone you and your gramma were in protective custody because there’d been some threats against you.”
“Have there been?”
“I don’t know.” The cop was clearly uncomfortable with the whole conversation. “Anyway, everyone cleared out. Welcome home.”
Jazz went inside and locked up. He checked on Gramma, who was still off in sleepland, maybe dreaming that she was sane. His stomach lurched and rumbled, and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything all day.
Down in the kitchen, all he could find to eat were some ice cream that had sprouted a fuzz of crystals, and two sad-looking drumsticks from the bucket of chicken Melissa had brought for Gramma days ago. He settled in at the table with the drumsticks and ate them cold, then scraped the top off the ice cream and ate the stuff underneath, which was stale, but edible.
As he ate, he stared through the kitchen door into Gramma’s backyard. During spring and summer, it was a nightmare of weeds, thistles, and overgrown grass that went on for two acres. But now, in autumn, it was just dead and flat all the way out to the toolshed.
Except for the birdbath.
There was nothing special about the birdbath. Cracked concrete base. A sculpted fish at the center, spewing water from its mouth into the basin. In a couple of weeks, it would be too cold for the birdbath and Jazz would disconnect it from the water line.
But right now, it sat there, happily gurgling away. Birdless.
So, yeah, Billy had said, I’ll help you, Jasper. But you’re going to help me, too.
Then what? Jazz remembered throwing up his hands in frustration. What do you want?
He got up from the table, dumped the remaining ice cream in the trash, and walked out to the birdbath.
You know that old birdbath my momma’s got in her backyard?
Yeah. Yeah, I know it. What are you—
Hush and listen, Jasper. I listened to you, now you listen to me. That damned thing…She’s had it since I was a kid. And I’ve been tellin’ her for forty years: She ain’t gettin’ birds in it ’cause she’s got it placed wrong.
What? What does this have to do with—
I said hush and listen, Jasper! For the first time, Billy had seemed agitated. Not in control.
Over a birdbath.
She’s got it oriented to a western exposure. See? It’s not gettin’ the morning light, and that’s what them birds want. It needs to be moved to the opposite edge of the lawn. I tried gettin’ her to move it, but she never listens. And then she bitches and complains that she don’t got no birds to watch during the day.
So…Jazz had thought carefully. So, in exchange for your help, you—what? Want me to convince Gramma to move the—
No. I don’t want you to convince her of anything. Just move the damn thing. Go when she’s asleep and just move it. You know, where that big ol’ sycamore sits. Once she sees all her birdie friends, she won’t care what you’ve done. And if she complains or asks, just tell her it’s always been there. She’s already batty like a belfry; she won’t remember.
And this, Jazz had said with incredulity, is the price of your help?
Billy had sighed and placed LOVE over FEAR. Indulge your old man, Jasper. You’re the only one who can take care of my momma while I’m locked up in here.
And so Jazz had agreed, and now he stared down at the birdbath.
The whole thing was ridiculous. It was insane.
So is Dear Old Dad.
Still, Billy was right. Gramma did always complain about the lack of birds for her to watch. And moving the birdbath p
robably would help.
He disconnected the water line and tilted the birdbath. It was lighter than he’d expected—it looked like the whole thing was made of concrete, but only the base was.
It couldn’t be as simple as moving it, he thought. Billy must have buried something under it.
But when he tilted the birdbath, all he saw underneath was a ring of dead, light brown grass that had been there forever.
Well…Why not?
He grunted and rolled the thing on the edge of its base. It wasn’t too heavy for him, but it was unwieldy, so it took him a while to wrestle it into its new position. From here the hose wouldn’t reach, so he had to go inside and find a longer hose. He reconnected everything and the birdbath started burbling again.
“I guess we’ll see what we see in the morning,” he said to it.
Inside, he caught the tail end of a chime of some sort coming from Howie’s cell phone, which was sitting on the kitchen table.
He tapped and poked at the screen until he found a text message from the sheriff:
think we found her. thx 4 yr help.—gwt
Jazz grinned. Now that the cops had the next victim in their sights, they could sit on her and wait for the killer to show up. Not bad for a day’s work. Not bad at all.
He went upstairs, tired beyond all belief. A note stuck to his computer reminded him that he needed to work on his rebuttal to Melissa Hoover’s recommendation, but his sleep-deprived brain couldn’t even entertain the idea. Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow I’ll write it. Take care of everything. Tomorrow.
Even though it was still early, he stripped down to his boxers and crawled into bed.
For the first time since Fiona Goodling had been found in Harrison’s field, he drifted into an untroubled, un-dreaming sleep.
CHAPTER 32
The Impressionist cursed under his breath and took a quick step back, positioning himself behind a tree. It was dark out and a street lamp was busted, so he had plenty of shadows.
He also had plenty of cops.
