by Nancy Gideon
Helen Kerwood.
His planned victim.
Who was this bastard muscling in on his notoriety? After all the pains he’d taken to set the stage for his last grand play for public attention, this–this nobody stepped in with a copy cat’s stealth to grab the focus away from him.
“Well, he won’t get away with it,” he promised the decaying corpse of Laurie Walshank. Then he shook the paper at the carry-out boy who didn’t look quite so cocky now that his eyeballs were rolling back in their sockets. Let him try to woo the ladies now that the stink of death was on him.
“Do you see this? No, I guess not. Well, let me tell you, I’m going to set them all straight. See if I don’t.”
He paced the small room with its crowd of silent admirers lined up against the thick cement wall. The wall was meant to keep out a nuclear holocaust but served just as well to keep the stench of decomposition in. He didn’t notice it any more. He noticed nothing but the headlines pointing at him, mocking him. Killer Claims Two More. Could our Community Hero be a Villain in Disguise?
Hero. Bah! What kind of hero stole another man’s hard work and claimed it for his own? He’d show that fireman. He’d show them all.
He sat down next to the body of the mother who’d looked so much like his next door neighbor when he’d seen her coming out of the grocery store. Now she didn’t resemble anyone living at all. He would miss these friends he’d made over the past six weeks. But he had to move on to bigger, better things.
The smell of decay was heavily laced with gasoline. Before he said his last good-byes, he’d drop a final match. The walls would keep the flames controlled and seal his secret in forever. No one would disturb them.
He wouldn’t be coming back. He knew and accepted that.
He was going out in a blaze of glory.
The idea made him shiver with anticipation.
He smiled to himself as he studied the bright shiny faces of Miss Brantley’s third grade class eternally fixed in black and white in the ancient group photo. Smiles that hid the ugliness inside.Smiles that he would turn to screams. Soon.
Soon.
And then everyone would know his name.
Everyone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The police station was an angry hive of activity, phones ringing, uniformed officers weaving through the swarm of irate citizens and press of insistent media. All wanted to know one thing.
What were they doing about the murderer?
Public opinion was ready to escort the as yet uncharged fireman to the gas chamber—forget that capital punishment wasn't allowed.They were ready to wave that particular technicality. The nearest tree branch would do. Alex Kerwood’s picture in full dress uniform stared off the front of every newspaper, from every television broadcast. Staff psychologists were putting together a profile of a man who could go from hero to horror by drawing on huge leaps of coincidence. And the public ate it up, a public so relieved to have someone to attach their nightmares to that they didn’t see the glaring inconsistencies. Nor were they particularly concerned about the gaps in evidence. They wanted the fear to end and in their mind, it would end when Alex Kerwood was behind bars . . . forever. Then they could go on with their lives as if none of the terror had ever happened.All but the families of the victims.
A floor above, Connor Pellman ignored the flashing of all five hold buttons on his phone to glare wearily up at Anne Goodnight. She stalked across his office with a slim folder in her hand. It slapped down on his cluttered blotter.
"The preliminary results of my autopsies on the Gorhams. No surprises. All findings duplicate the particular striations and punctures found on the remains at Kerwood's home. I told you what we were dealing with. Perhaps now you'll deflate your ego and believe me."
Pellman stared at the folder. It could well have been drenched in the Gorhams's blood. The chief said nothing to counter his pathologist's report. One thing was turning through his mind, like the shifting of compost from new material to decomposing fodder.
He'd known and he hadn't done anything.
Larry Gorham was dead because of his insatiable thirst for media approval. Because of that, he didn’t even care who had leaked the information to the press. It didn’t matter now that they knew. The inevitable had just caught up with him sooner than he’d planned. And he was nowhere near ready to deal with it. Not now, not ever. He had exactly jack to tell them. No suspect in custody, and now even his own people were feeding him information that was right off the Rod Serling channel. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to put all the messy pieces together to make some sense of the whole?
He did know one thing. Kerwood was involved. If he hadn’t done the actually dismembering, he was still an integral piece of that puzzle. And until he could question the man, jack was all he’d have.
"Thank you, Ms. Goodnight."
She hesitated, confused by his quiet dismissal, having expected a fierce battle over her unpopular conclusions. But instead of an adversary, she saw a beaten comrade on the other side of the desk.She should offer some sort of platitude. Something like, It wasn't your fault. But the words stuck in her throat. Because it was his fault!
And a man she'd liked and admired was dead because of his narrow vision.
Catching a glimpse of movement through the frosted door glass, Anne said with an unforgiving formality, "I'll be in my office finalizing these reports . . . if you have any more questions."
Pellman didn't look up. "Thanks."
She left the room, slipping past a uniformed officer and two nondescript men in dark suits. She could tell by the tightly buttoned shirt collars that seemed to be strangling them in protocol that they were federal agents, but she couldn't spare the charity to wish her superior good luck. Her original opinion of him, forged in blood at the Gorhams's, remained intact—even though those two decent people hadn't.
"Chief," the officer announced. "The Bureau's here."
"Who called those sons-of-bitches?" he grumbled, still staring at the closed folder.
"What I meant to say, sir, is they are right here beside me."
Pellman's gaze flew up to regard the two somber-faced suits.His smile was grim as he rose up to offer his hand. The initial introductions were never made.
"Why weren't we notified of this sooner?"
Pellman dropped back into his chair, pleasantries forgotten in the sudden roar of departmental jealousies. "I've been busy."
"Well," the other agent murmured with a frosty politeness, "we'd appreciate the cooperation now, Chief Pellman. If you can spare the time."
"I'm still busy, gentlemen. I can have one of my men take you over to the crime scene, but we've already gone over every inch of the house and yard. This was one of our own and we'd like to handle it."
"Doesn't look like you've handled it very well so far, Chief," the first agent mentioned casually. "You've got a three ringed circus going on downstairs."
"We'd like all your records on this case," the other stated."Now."
Pellman was saved by the appearance of one of his sergeants at the open door. In answer to the beckoning gesture, Pellman curtly excused himself from the room, closing the door between him and the unwelcome intruders.
"Tell me you've got Kerwood," he demanded of the sergeant."Tell me you've got something!" He was on the Titanic and it was sinking fast. Any floatation device would be gladly accepted to keep him out of the frigid waters of public disdain.
"No, sir. But he was at the fire station earlier. There was some kind of disturbance."
"What kind of disturbance?"
"I've got one guy sitting downstairs with a broken nose ready to give a statement on how Kerwood attacked him. I'll keep you informed—"
"That won't be necessary, Ted." Pellman glanced back at the closed office door, seizing the excuse to escape the condescending vultures waiting to pick apart what was left of his career. "I'll do the interview myself. See that my two guests are comfortable and don't answer a
ny of their questions. This is our back yard and they haven't been invited to play in it yet. Not by me."
ӜӜӜ
A haze of ash and smoke muted the daylight struggling to penetrate the depths of the ruined house. There was no electricity so Alex was forced to work fast to take advantage of the remaining daylight. He moved quickly, efficiently, in his element now as he strung wires and planted the plastique at strategic locations.Placement was critical. The building had to collapse inward if his plan was to succeed.
He stuck a big wad of the explosive atop a barrel of gasoline and attached the wires. A single stick of dynamite jabbed into it like an obscene birthday candle.
Yeah, happy birthday, you son-of-a-bitch. May it be your last.
He strung the fuse along with the plastique wires. Always have a backup in case the main plan fails. That's what he'd been taught.
But sometimes backups fail, too. Like he did with Terry. The way he did at the Gorhams.
Not this time. Not. This. Time.
Alex smiled fiercely, pushing back those taunting whispers to concentrate on his work. He considered soaking the building with the flammable liquid but decided against it. The smell might hinder his efforts.
A trap only worked if the intended victim didn't suspect anything.
Finally, it was done. Alex stood in the center of the crisped living room to survey his handiwork. Everything was in place. It should spring perfectly now that the cheese was dangling.
And he was that bait.
Wearily, Alex dropped down onto the remains of the sofa, coughing briefly as a great puff of soot and smoke billowed out in protest. He was wearing his fire suit. It was heavy and hot but those annoyances were slight. His helmet was on the couch next to him. The detonator nestled in his palm. Now all he had to do was wait.
Here, he'd make his stand for Helen and the Gorhams. Here, he'd risk all to save strangers. That was his job. A job he loved. For Terry. For the woman and her child. For all those he hadn't been able to protect.
He would make up for those failings now. Whatever the cost. It was time to grow up.
He scanned the dim corners of the room.
"Come on you bastard. I'm ready for you."
Al Fargo strode into the convenience store, nodding amiably to the clerk behind the counter. His smile was returned reluctantly as the man went back to perusing his dirty magazine, trying to ignore his presence.
"Hey, what's happening?"
The clerk glanced up, scowling slightly at the interruption taking him away from Miss June. "Can I help you find something?"
"Naw. Just getting something cold and bold to drink and something fattening to nosh on."
"Well, in that case, sport, I won't have to offer the golden tour."
Al smirked. "Much appreciated."
He prowled the aisles, restlessly checking out the munchy selection. He wasn't hungry. He was angry. Angry with the guys at the station who'd turned like a pack of rabid dogs on one of their own. Angry at Alex, his friend, for not helping the situation when he broke Davy's nose.
Dammit, he hated it when things got complicated. If he hadn't been in the john when Alex made his cameo appearance at the station house, maybe he could have done something to smooth things over, to talk some sense into Alex and the boneheads he worked with. None of them really, really, thought Alex was guilty. They were just scared and helpless and mad. They were hurting for Pete. And that made them all a little crazy.
If they’d been thinking clearly, they’d all have realized what he had, that Alex may have been somehow involved, but as a victim, not as the predator they all wanted to see crucified. He should have been given the benefit of the doubt, not the detriment of their disbelief.
And then there was Wayne. Something hinky was going on there.Something that had to do with the day the two of them spent hunting.Something that had to do with Alex being on the run and Wayne a knot of tense silence. A silence that had broken after Alex fled the only place he should have been able to find sanctuary. Wayne had chewed them out royally on Alex’s behalf and left the lunkheads stewing sullenly in their guilt. And Al had had enough of all of them.
His one grand scheme for the evening was to plop in front of his TV to get quietly wasted watching anything that didn’t have news bulletins featuring his best friend as Public Enemy Number One. He'd considered going to Double-Vision but nixed that idea. There'd be questions about Alex that he didn't want to answer–couldn’t answer. He didn't want noise. He wanted oblivion.
He wanted this whole mess to be over with.
Grabbing up a bag of Funyons, Al ambled toward the cooler in back. Opening the sealed door, he inhaled the cold air deep into his lungs and released it with an icy, "Ahhhh."
There was a jingle from the front as a man in his mid-thirties entered the store. He carried a beaten up satchel. Just an average Joe, easily forgettable. Al turned back to the cooler, decided on a label, and took a six pack from the icy case as the other customer approached the counter.
The clerk slapped aside his magazine to growl, "What you need?"
"How about a cigar?"
"What about 'em?"
The man smiled thinly. "Do you have any?"
The clerk gestured to the wall behind him with a sigh that said everything was there for any blind man to see. The customer rubbed his chin, studying row upon row of cartons.
"Swisher Sweets." He set the battered satchel between his feet, nudging his toes in protectively. Noting that movement, Al hung back, hoping like hell he wasn't going to find himself in the middle of a robbery.
The clerk grabbed down a box and slapped them on the counter."That it?"
"Yep. And this bag of suckers. It’s for a third grade class.A treat for tomorrow afternoon.” He laughed softly to himself as if that were some great joke.
The clerk didn’t get it. Neither did Al.
As the clerk punched the register keys, the man started fumbling in the pocket of his pants, pulling out a crinkled dollar and some change.
"Three dollars and thirty cents."
The fellow nudged a few coins around in his palm and frowned.Placing what he had on the counter top, he bent down to the bag at his feet, muttering, "Just a second. I need to grab a bill."
Al tensed, gaze riveted to the satchel, certain that its battered depths contained a Saturday Night Special. What was he going to do about it? The thought of just fading back and letting it happen never fully materialized.
Alex would say it was because of the kind of men they were. Men like Al Fargo and his pal, Alex Kerwood, were heroes. Al usually thought that was just BS. Now he thought it just might get him killed.
He glanced down at his hands, frustrated with the six pack and Funyons. Dangerous stuff, but only to his digestive tract and cholesterol levels.
The stranger tugged at the zipper on the bag. It seemed to stick so he gave it a hard jerk. It tipped, spewing some of the contents onto the scuffed, soda-stained linoleum. Al recognized a wallet, several sets of keys, a woman's compact and lipstick, a hairbrush.Odd things for a man to be carrying.
And a severed human finger.
While Al stared in mute horror and incredulity, the man quickly scooped the damning item back into the bag with the rest of the things, retaining the wallet. Calm as can be, he opened it to withdraw another dollar bill and straightened.
"Here you go."
The clerk picked up the money and finished the transaction as Al Fargo stood struggling with his desire to vomit.
What the hell was he going to do now?
It was a woman's finger. Slender, young with carefully tapered and buffed nail.
It could have belonged to Laurie Walshank.
He cursed under his breath and strode forward before he could think about it. Sometimes, a man had to act first, throw up later.He'd learned that in his line of work years ago, too.
"How are you?" he said with a chummy good humor as he stepped in beside the fellow at the counter. Pale eyes flew up in
alarm.Obviously, he'd thought he and the clerk were alone in the store.
"Fine," came his anxious reply as those wide eyes cut to the door, measuring the distance to it. He stretched out an impatient hand for his change. The clerk counted it back lethargically.
"Here you go. Three dollars thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five and fifty. Sorry about the nickels. Change drawer runs kinda lean this time a night."
The man wasn't listening. He snatched up the cigars and lollipops then dove down for his satchel. Al's easy tone froze him.
"What's in the bag, friend?"
The pale stare lifted, glittering malevolently. "None of your business."
Al smiled, a fierce barring of teeth. "I think it is," was his conversational reply.
The man grabbed for the worn handle and Al grabbed for him, beefy fingers closing around sinew and bone in a crushing grip. With the strength of panic behind him, the man swung the stud-reinforced case, striking Al in the groin. Al's response was universal. He groaned mightily, doubling up, and let go. The clerk looked on in confusion.
The satchel carrier tried to sprint for the door, but Al caught the handle of the bag, pulling hard, seesawing it back and forth between them. They banged into a candy display, bringing down a shower of GummiSavers, Butterfingers, and Sprees.
The clerk finally acted. Seeing two men involved in a push-pull match over an old piece of luggage was none of his concern. Watching his inventory rolling all over the floor, being crushed underfoot while they grappled with one another was another matter entirely.He reached under the counter, grabbing up his equalizer, leveling the bore of the double barreled shot gun at the two men with somber purpose.
"Stop right there!"
The satchel carrier landed a punch to Al's face then hesitated in surprise at the clerk’s intervention. Apparently, he figured there was no threat, because his elbow went back, ready to off load another fistful of fury. The first barrel of the shot gun boomed, obliterating the potato chip display above their heads. Bits of chips and shredded plastic fluttered down. Both men froze then, staring with comical blankness at the seething clerk.
