In the Woods

by Nancy Gideon

  "Goddammit! You made me shoot Mr. Peanut! Now, get your hands up where I can see 'em."

  Both men complied. Al, gasping heavily with exertion, gestured down at the satchel lying on the floor between them.

  "This man is wanted by the police. He's the one who's been murdering people. I saw a finger fall out of his bag."

  The clerk looked down at the bag, his expression a mix of outrage and shock. Taking advantage of the distraction, the suspected edged toward the door, pausing when the remaining barrel made a bead on him.

  "Don't move!" the clerk growled menacingly. Then he nodded to Al. "Open the bag."

  Careful not to come between the shotgun and the killer, Al knelt down and tussled briefly with the zipper. The satchel owner scowled down at him, jaw clenched tight while circles of sweat spread beneath his raised arms.

  Unable to help himself, Al reared back when the smell hit him,the kind of petrifying stench the vents of the car sucked in when passing road kill in mid-August. Grimly, he upended the bag, dumping the contents out for their examination. An odd collection of personal items stood out from the dirty rags, duct tape and length of electrical cord. But what really separated themselves from the rest, where four severed fingers rolling free, each in a different stage of decay.

  A man who carried his work around with him.

  And then he saw Laurie Walshank’s key ring.

  Al remembered the occasion. Pete had been so crowingly proud of his daughter’s academic achievements, he’d bought his girl a used sports car to carry her back and forth to college. Al, who knew his way around a four barrel carb, had gone with him to pick it out.Cherry red, black vinyl upholstery, four-on-the-floor with spunky get up and go. Everything a girl could want. And Pete had attached the keys to a special ring, a pressed pewter design of a helmet and fire hose.

  That same helmet and fire hose lay on the soiled convenience store floor, as carelessly discarded as Laurie Walshank’s future.

  Al stood up slowly, fighting the disgust, the rage of any decent man confronted with such atrocity. He stared into the pale-eyed gaze, wanting to see if there was some kind of soul lurking there behind the madness. Seeing nothing but the same wild brilliance he saw when looking deep into the flames of a raging fire.

  Heat, madness, and a killing joy.

  "You're done for, mister," he said.

  And the arc of his fist caught the man’s jaw, flinging him backward into what was left of the chip and nut rack, where he slumped, unconscious.

  Rubbing his knuckles in satisfaction, Al turned to the clerk.“Call 911 and tell them to hurry. If he comes around before they get here, I just might have to kill him with my bare hands. It’d be better than he deserves.”

  The clerk picked up the phone, no argument.

  Al leaned against the counter, flexing his sore muscles and feeling a far deeper pain.

  Now Pete would know for sure. And he could give his daughter a proper funeral. A bitter consolation, but an end to the agony of unknowns at last.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Alex came awake with a jerk, uncertain at first what had shocked through his exhausted sleep and confused by his surroundings. The remains of stale smoke and ash were thick, clouding the thin stream of moonlight filtering in from outside. It washed over the ruined furnishings, making everything appear more gritty, as if he were viewing it all through a coarse-grained, slightly out of focus lens.His eyes and throat felt gritty, too.

  Where was he?

  He straightened on the soggy sofa, gaze doing a quick inventory of his situation. It caught and focused on a large gasoline barrel, its lid wired like Frankenstein's monster. Then he knew.

  And he knew what had awakened him.

  The soft snuffling sound came again. It made the hairs quiver up all over his body in a prickly ripple. Another noise followed. The click of toenails, louder, more distinct then a dog's on kitchen tiles. More like the talons of a bird. A big, big bird, and he doubted that it would be yellow or cute or singing the praises of the letter B.

  The first thing he saw clearly was a glow, like the twin beams of a pair of small flashlights cutting through the gloom. Bright, phosphorescent. Unnatural. Swinging slowly from side to side then becoming a steady beacon, fixed on him. The snuffling became a low rumble, a growl.

  Very gradually, Alex reached out beside him for his fire helmet.The growl intensified as he lifted it slowly, affixing it on his head, securing the straps with nerveless fingers.

  The beast advanced into the room, shoulders filling the door frame. One of those massive swells was stained dark with blood around the hole Larry Gorham had put into it, but that bullet seemed to have about as much affect as the buckshot in the tailgate of Wayne’s truck.Alex remained motionless, choking down the tidal wave of fright that threatened to drown his resolve. The image grew more defined. The gleam of tusks, the dark wet pink as nostrils flared to suck in his scent, the curve of the terrible talons as they clicked against the floor with each forward stride.

  An object was clutched in its jaws, something round. Reminding Alex of some huge playful dog bringing him a ball in hopes of a game of catch. Only this was no game to him as a shaft of moonlight illuminated the gift the devil dog was bearing.

  A human head.

  A quiet moan of horror escaped Alex.

  The devil dog dropped its offering, its growl now menacing. The head rolled about in an awkward circle, sightless eyes flashing like bright marbles. Sickness swelled, forming a massive bitter pressure against Alex’s ribs. He fought it, concentrating all his conscious energies on the detonator in his hand. Slowly he stood, edging around the couch on his way to one of the broken windows. The monster advanced, matching him step for determined step.

  Just a little closer. Come into my parlor . . .

  The demon stood next to the barrel, sniffing around it cautiously and whined, not liking the odor.

  Now or never.

  Alex flicked the detonator switch.

  Nothing.

  Something was wrong. The wiring didn't deliver the necessary charge to set off his Fourth of July.

  Don't panic. Time for plan B.

  He drew out his lighter and thumbed it.

  Nothing.

  Again.

  Nothing.

  "Damn," he muttered through clenched teeth. Sweat poured beneath the hot swaddling of his fire suit.

  Alex glanced at the lighter. Child-proof. He bit back his groan, pressing the button, flicking it again to ignite a small flame. He touched it to the wick where it sparked and began to sizzle, hungrily racing down the line.

  The demon stopped growling. Its heavy head cocked to one side as it watched the wick sparkle in its approach.

  Alex started easing backward.

  Noting the movement, the demon dog's head shot up in suspicion.The growl returned, deep, full-throated and vicious. It took a step forward. Alex froze, his attention riveted to the wick. Only a second or two longer. He took another step back. The monster matched it.

  The tiny sparkler climbed up the twist of wick, scaling the gasoline barrel. Just as it crested the rim, Alex broke for the window, movements awkward in the bulky suit. Muted by his helmet, he heard the dreaded click of talons behind him as they scrambled for purchase, readying to lunge.

  He flung himself through the window frame, his airtime enhanced by the sudden push of the explosion. A ball of flame jetted out, engulfing him in a rush of heat so intense, he could feel it through the suit, so bright, he was momentarily blinded.

  He hit the ground hard, rolling instinctively to smother the blaze coating him in death's embrace, breaking free of it as the last flickers extinguished. And he crawled rapidly, putting as much distance between him and the house as he could before a secondary blast brought the structure down in a fiery pyre as hell claimed its own.

  Good riddance and don’t bother to write!

  Suddenly aware of the heat inside the suit scorching his skin, he tottered to his feet, yanking off his he
lmet and mask, gulping in the night air as he struggled out of the singed gear. Only then did he look back at the blaze, at the rubble of the house, now little more than kindling. Nothing could have survived within it. Nothing.

  A hard shiver of satisfaction passed over him.

  "That's for my wife."

  ӜӜӜ

  Alex drove the Jeep up into his driveway, swinging past a police vehicle parked at the curb. He could see the slumped figures of two sleeping policemen inside and he envied their oblivion.

  No reason to wake them.

  He got out of the Jeep, moving with a painful hobble toward the front door. Crime scene tape wrapped the entrance, but was easily ripped through by a man anxious for a shower and change of clothing.He went inside, overwhelmed for a moment by the quiet, by the familiarity that was also drastically different. Because the house was empty of life, of love. He'd remedy that as soon as he could.But first, he had to make a call.

  "Police Department. How can I direct your call?" came the harried monotone on the other end of the line when it was finally answered some twenty or so rings later.

  "I'd like to leave a message for Chief Pellman. This is Alex Kerwood. Tell him he's invited over to my house for coffee. There's no rush. I've got to shower first."

  "Stay there," the operator demanded in a rattled agitation."Stay on the line—"

  But Alex replaced the receiver and began unbuttoning his shirt as he moved wearily toward the bathroom.

  There was no hurry now.

  ӜӜӜ

  Four men crowded into the windowless interrogation room. None of them were having a particularly good day. Connor Pellman should have been in his glory. The serial killer who'd terrorized their community was sitting across from him, but the fact was, he and his men had nothing to do with the capture. Some off-duty fireman had brought him down. Worse, he wasn't conducting the interview. One of the irritatingly calm FBI agents had his seat at the table, and he was reduced to an observer in his own station. The second Fed stood off to one side as motionless as the statue of their hometown World War I hero posing in the downtown park.

  Not only had the arrest and interrogation been snatched from his hands, their suspect was being hard-assed about coming across with anything the media could delight in. No, all-in-all, it wasn't the photo opportunity that would launch his career in politics. The front page would run the picture of that beefy fire-fighter as hero of the day, and his role would be a footnote, easily forgotten.

  "Where did you put them?" the federal agent asked again in the same dry monotone.

  Their suspect, one Levi Fennerman, 37, never married, independent house painter, perennial loser and possible serial killer, leaned on his forearms, fixing his glittering ice stare at his accuser. “Wouldn't you like to know?"

  The unflappable agent never blinked. "As a matter of fact, I would."

  "It wouldn't matter if you did find them, which you won’t," Fennerman gloated, slumping back in his chair with a smarmy grin."There's really nothing left for you to build a case on. I made it a point to make the bodies unrecognizable. Nothing to link me to any of them."

  "Except the last ones," the second agent intoned. “We’ve got them.”

  Fennerman glanced up at him, smirking, feeling the high of having power over them all. "That pretty young thing? Huh uh. All gone. Was she something special to you? A sister? A girlfriend?"

  "You are a sick puppy," Pellman said through the clench of his teeth.

  Fennerman looked comically offended. "Don't talk about my mother!"

  The interrogator interrupted smoothly. "We were talking about the mess you left a couple of nights ago. A couple in their own home.And a woman as a witness. Ring any bells, Mr. Fennerman?"

  For the first time, Fennerman's cocky attitude ebbed. He frowned suspiciously and darted a narrowed gaze between them. "I don't know anything about that. What's going on? What are you trying to pull?"

  "You've been very forthcoming so far, Mr. Fennerman. Why not tell us about the Gorhams and Alex Kerwood."

  "Who?" He frowned. The name was familiar. Kerwood. “Who’s that?”

  "Your accomplice in at least four of the killings. We've found evidence at his home on two occasions, and he's been positively placed at the Gorham site. There's no need to pretend, Mr. Fennerman. We know about Kerwood. We just don't know what the connection is. Did he pick your victims for you? Was he supposed to eliminate the evidence and screwed up somehow? Did he just play along on the rest of them just to get rid of his wife?”

  Fennerman slapped his palms on the table, declaring hotly, "I don't know no Alex Kerwood. Nobody helped me with anything. I did it. I did it all! Me! I picked 'em, I killed 'em, I—" He sat back chuckling. "Trying to trick me again, aren't you? Well, it ain't gonna work. I want that lawyer and I want him now. I ain't saying nothing else about anything."

  "Afraid Kerwood is trying to steal some of your glory?" the agent goaded. "You can get back at him for that. Talk to us first. Tell us about the bodies. Maybe we can make some kind of deal."

  "I ain't dealing."

  "Gorham was a cop. Did you know that?" Pellman interjected, hoping to rattle him. "You think we're just going to let you sit back and claim the 5th after what you did to him and his wife?"

  Fennerman made an obscene gesture.

  Pellman was across the table, his hands knotting up in Fennerman's stale shirt, jerking the other man out of his chair so that their faces were inches apart. Fennerman squirmed, alarmed.

  "Hey, hey! You can't do this! Lemme go! It's against my rights!"

  "Rights? What kind of rights did you allow my detective when you tore open his chest and left him scattered all over his living room?" Pellman snarled, shaking him like a rat. "What about his rights, you maggot?"

  "I told you! I didn't do no policeman! That wasn't me! One at a time. I pick 'em one at a time. Never more than that. All I took was the fingers. Never did anything else to 'em. Just the fingers so they couldn't go pointing at me no more, laughing at me. Always laughing. Nobody's laughing now, are they? Are they?"

  "Pellman, get a grip," the second FBI man cautioned, stepping in to pry the chief off their suspect. Pellman wheeled away, letting the grinning killer fall back in his seat. He paced the small room, trying to recover his composure. As it seeped back, he was uncomfortably reminded of the pathologist's claim.

  Two killers. Two separate cases.

  Why the hell hadn't he listened to her? Well, even now he wasn't sure he believed everything she'd said, not strongly enough to share it with the two mocking Feds, but enough to be confident that he was on the right track and they were off in left field.

  Maybe it wasn't too late to salvage things.

  "Gentlemen," he drawled out. "I think you're going at this situation all wrong. I don't think Mr. Fennerman here had anything to do with the last batch of killings or anything to do with Kerwood. I think he acted alone."

  The second agent leveled a chilling stare on him. "Is that what you think? Anything substantial behind that piece of news, chief?"

  Pellman met his gaze with a frosty glare of his own. "My pathologist is working on it now. We've been exploring this other avenue for some time. Now that Fennerman is out of the way, I'll be turning all my manpower over to this Kerwood business."

  The agents studied him. Pellman read their contempt, their doubt. He knew what they saw. Small town glory hound running a rinky-dink operation. Well, he'd show them. Yes, he would, and the whole town, too.

  There was a tap on the door and Officer Oldman stuck in his head.

  "Excuse me, Chief, but I thought you'd want to hear this right away."

  "What is it, Oldman?"

  When the man didn’t answer, he scowled and went over to hear Oldman’s quiet message meant for him alone. "We’ve got another victim. A sixty-year-old man snatched off his patio while he was watering his petunias.”

  “When? Do you have an exact time?”

  Oldman smiled. “Ten thirty. His
wife heard the commotion and when she went to look, he was gone . . . except for a lot of blood.”

  Ten thirty. Pellman’s mind raced. Fennerman was picked up at nine forty-five.

  So it couldn’t have been him.

  They had two killers, one still on the loose.

  “Did the wife see anything? Can she identify anyone?” He knew it was a vain hope even as he spoke it. Oldman shook his head.

  Damn.

  “Chief, there’s something else.”

  The Feds were looking his way now, alerted by his high color and animation.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Another victim,” Pellman stated with a cold pleasure. “A victim of the second killer.”

  “What?” both the Feds and Fennerman shouted.

  “That’s right, boys. And my men are right on top of it. What else was there, Oldman?”

  “Kerwood is at his residence. He just called. Seems he wants to turn himself in."

  Pellman’s breath escaped in a rush. “About damned time. What about our men on the scene?”

  “They’re inside the house now, waiting for your orders, sir.”

  "Wait," the second Bureau man called. "This is our investigation."

  "My ass," Pellman growled.

  "We're going, too," the first agent insisted, shutting off his recorder and rising up from the table. Fennerman looked between them all, scowling, not pleased at having the attention wrested away.

  "What about me?" he shouted.

  "Watch him," Pellman told Oldman. "Get him processed. Murder one." Then he glared at the two Feds. "If you're coming, coming on.Just don't get in my way."

  Oldman looked to the displeased killer and unsnapped his holster as he adopted a Dirty Harry stance. “Don’t move,” he warned. “Don’t even breathe.”

  Pellman stalked through the station with the two federal agents on his heels, marching like Sherman on his way to Georgia with a mission in mind.

  And as he strode passed the throng of media, he was wondering which of his publicity stills to use.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN