The Blood-Dimmed Tide (John Joran Mysteries Book 22)

by Michael Lister

  Tattered drapes like battle flags hang through openings where windows used to be, flapping in the breeze blowing in off the Gulf.

  Somewhere unseen in the darkness, pieces of metal clang against each other like the rigging of a sailboat lost at sea.

  As I approach the dark, dead building, I see Reggie’s SUV parked alone in the rubble-piled parking lot.

  Ducking beneath a large hanging shard of glass, I step through the lobby door to find what looks like an explosives crime scene, window glass and souvenir trinkets crunching beneath the heels of my shoes. The room is damp and dank, its furniture overturned and piled together. All the papers scattered around the floor are wet and faded. The tiki bar from the back has been blown in through the back doors and windows, breaking the glass and crashing in to fill the entire back half of the lobby. Through the missing door of the gift shop, I see what looks like the bombed-out store of a terrorist attack on a mall. Thousands and thousands of trinkets only tourists would buy join beach T-shirts and hats and sunscreen and lotion and plastic bottles of soda and glass bottles of beer and a million other unidentifiable things on the wet, sandy floor.

  Crawling back through the broken door, I step out into the parking lot and look up at the structure that looks as though it should not be standing.

  As I stare up at the thrashed motel I see the beams of two flashlights moving in different places and in different directions up on the fourth floor.

  I run over to Reggie’s vehicle. The door is open but she’s not inside.

  With the dim light of my cell phone I search her SUV for a flashlight.

  In moments I have one and I am rushing to the far stairs and beginning to make my way up them.

  My progress is slowed and impeded by trash and debris, missing steps, and fallen, twisted railings, and it’s going to take far longer than I thought to reach the fourth floor.

  Several times my foot falls through the crumbling concrete step that is no longer there and I have to catch myself to keep from crashing all the way through. I’ll be lucky to make it to the top without managing to break a leg.

  It takes me a while to climb the rickety metal and crumbling concrete stairs, and as I do I think about what’s going on here and why. I search for motivations, going over everything we’ve uncovered so far.

  And in that moment I see something I haven’t seen before—something clicks and the tumblers fall into place and the lock opens.

  I now know—or think I do—what’s going on. This is a setup and I doubt Merrick is even here.

  When I reach the top of the stairs, there is nothing but darkness. The beams of the flashlights are off or have moved to different, unseen locations.

  Most of the hotel room doors are open or missing, and I walk over and enter the opening of the room closest to me. Inside, I snap on the flashlight for a quick look around and then turn it off again.

  From here it looks like the entire backside of the motel has been ripped off. What is left of the furniture in the room is in a molding and mildewing pile in the center, and through a large missing section in the interior wall I can see that the adjoining room is much the same—as is the one beyond it.

  Stepping back over to the stairs, I hold onto a twisted piece of railing and lean out a little to see if I can locate the other flashlights again.

  Scanning the external hallways floor by floor, I can find no beams of light.

  And then I look up.

  A beam of light is moving around up on the fifth floor. Had I just been wrong and that’s where it was before or had whoever it is moved from the fourth to the fifth by the time I made it up here?

  I can feel the piece of railing in my hand start to give, so I reposition myself, let go of it, and begin to make my way up the next flight of stairs to the top floor.

  When I step out onto the concrete hallway of the fifth floor, a beam of light in the third room over goes out.

  Withdrawing my weapon, I rush over to the third doorway and step through its empty frame.

  Holding the flashlight next to my Glock, I snap the light on and sweep the room.

  It’s as trashed as the one before—maybe more so. The rooms next to it, seen through the mostly missing walls, are in the same condition.

  There’s no one in the room, but through the empty metal frame of what was the sliding door leading onto the balcony, I can see an unconscious Reggie, tangled up in the twisted railing and leaning over the edge, the back of her head covered with blood.

  The weight of her body leaning against the railing, which appears to be held in place by a single bolt or maybe two, seems to ensure that it will eventually fall. The question is how long does she have.

  I start to rush over to help her but remember the beam of light from a few minutes before and decide to search the room and the ones next to it again before I do.

  “John?” Randa says as she steps into the doorway behind me.

  I spin around, pointing my gun and flashlight at her face.

  The bright light washes her pale skin out even more but makes her intense green eyes seem to turn translucent.

  She holds her hands up. “I’m not armed or shooting at you like Derek was,” she says.

  Raising my voice above the wind and surf, I say, “Keep your hands where I can see them. Step over this way.”

  When she gets close enough, I lean in to her and whisper, “You’re being set up.”

  “No shit,” she says. “I just woke up here a few minutes ago. No idea how I got here or who brought me.”

  “Will you help me?” I say.

  “Of course,” she says, her voice sincere, earnest, seeming to communicate it goes without saying.

  “I’m sure he’s nearby listening,” I say. “He’ll want to hear how this unfolds. I saw his light here a few moments ago. He can’t have gotten far. Will you help me get Reggie in, then continue to talk loudly like you’re talking to me while I go look for him?”

  “Where is Reggie?”

  I swing the light around and show her.

  In the spill of the flashlight beam, I can see the dark, narrow eyebrows above her wild green eyes arch in surprise.

  “Sure,” she says, already moving in Reggie’s direction. “Come on. That looks like it could go any second.”

  “You’re not leaving this room alive,” I yell. “You’re the one who’s going to have an accident tonight, not me or Reggie.”

  We move over quickly and quietly to the balcony.

  “What’re you talking about, John? I don’t understand.”

  We continue to talk like that to each other as we work to free Reggie from the railing and pull her back into the room.

  “Tell me what made you do it?” I ask. “Are all these victims really random or are you punishing them for something?”

  When we have Reggie lying on the damp floor of the moldy room, I whisper, “Take care of her and keep talking. I’m gonna go see if I can find him.”

  “Who?” she asks. “Who is it?”

  “Tim Jonas,” I say, “the reporter for the Times.”

  “What’re you talking about?” she shouts as I turn off my light and sneak out of the room. “Why’re you setting me up like this? I’m innocent.”

  Guessing that since we are on the far west end of the motel, Tim is to our east and plans to escape by the stairs on that end, I head in that direction.

  It’s so dark and I can see so little that I concentrate on trying to hear or smell him—a challenge made even more difficult by the sound of the wind and waves and the pervasiveness of the stench of mold, mildew, and rot.

  In order to be close enough to hear us, he’ll have to be in one of these first couple of rooms.

  I make my way to the third doorway down and, crouching, enter the room.

  As best I can tell in the moonlight, the room is empty.

  I ease over to the opening in the wall to the west and step through it.

  And see him standing there next to the hole in the wall on the
other side, leaning in, listening to what Randa is saying two rooms down.

  Quietly coming up behind him, when I am within three feet of him I click on the flashlight, identify myself, and tell him to show me his hands.

  His diminutive stature makes me feel like I’m pointing my gun at a kid instead of a man, and I shudder as I have the feeling I’m back in the hallway of Potter High.

  As he raises his hands I can see he has nothing in them and I wonder if since he uses debris and other natural resources and storm elements to kill, he doesn’t carry a weapon.

  “John?” he says. “I’m so glad you’re here. I didn’t think my text went through.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “What? No. I’m here on a story. You won’t believe—”

  “Save it,” I say. “I know it’s you.”

  “What’s me?”

  “You’re the chaos killer.”

  “The what?”

  “Your paper sends you out on these assignments and you kill people,” I say. “You’re sent out sometimes to see if the storm will develop into something. When it doesn’t, when it’s just a tropical storm, you’re still there—even though there’s no need for the other agencies and organizations to show up—which is why there were murders in the smaller storms too. Your press credentials get you in anywhere—even past roadblocks and after curfew. You can easily approach people, pretending to want to do an interview, and the rest of the time you blend into the background. I wondered why the murders stopped for a while at the beginning. There had to be a good reason. It was because you returned to Tampa, but as soon as you convinced your editor to let you return, the killings started again. Now, very slowly place your hands on the back of your head with your fingers laced.”

  “John, this is crazy,” he says. “Based on everything you just said, the killer could be any reporter or member of the press. Why not Merrick? Or Bucky? Or Gabriella Gonzalez?”

  “None of them have been at all the other disasters where you murdered people.”

  “Bucky has.”

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  “I mean, we always travel together.”

  “Which is what’s going to make him a very valuable witness for us.”

  “You have no proof of anything and this is absolutely absurd. I’m not—”

  “I’m willing to bet anything that the marker you used to draw the chaos symbol on Reggie is on you right now—unless you already planted it on Randa. Now, put your hands on your head and lace your fingers.”

  “Randa,” he says. “That’s who you need to be looking at. She’s probably in there finishing the job on Reggie right now. Merrick said you have a blind spot when it comes to her that none of them can understand.”

  “Merrick would never give Randa Reggie’s cell number,” I say. “But he’d give it to you. But you’re right—nothing I’ve said so far proves you’re the killer, but what does and what will is your DNA on Reggie and Randa tonight, the burner phone in your pocket that was used to text Reggie, and the fact that you put information in your articles that only the killer could have known. You claimed sources close to the investigation revealed certain things to you, but no one told you any of those things. You were your own source. You knew because you are the killer.”

  “I can just argue that I did an interview with the killer, that she—”

  “Last chance,” I say. “Lace your fingers behind your head—”

  “Or what? You’ll shoot and kill me like you did Derek?”

  He darts out of the room and I holster my weapon and follow him.

  When I reach the open doorway I pause to shine my light in each direction to see which way he went.

  He’s heading east in the opposite direction of where Randa and Reggie are.

  I follow after him—though not running nearly as fast as he is.

  As I do, I call dispatch and request an ambulance and backup.

  Using my flashlight to look for holes in the floor and debris blocking the hallway, I don’t move as quickly or as recklessly as he does.

  As I’m looking down at the floor, he disappears in the darkness up in front of me.

  I can’t be sure—did he make it to the stairwell or duck into one of the rooms?

  Out of that darkness comes his disembodied voice.

  “You think I’m a killer but you can’t shoot me when you have the chance?”

  I can’t tell where the sound is coming from.

  “Do you lack the courage of your convictions?” he yells. “That’s not it, is it? You’re haunted by Derek, aren’t you? Wonder if you’ll ever discharge your weapon again?”

  I turn off my flashlight and listen for where his voice is coming from.

  “So instead you’re going to risk your life chasing me around this collapsing deathtrap. I like it, though. Leave it to chance, see how random all this really is.”

  His voice is being carried by the wind but it seems to be originating from inside one of the rooms.

  I click the flashlight back on and begin searching the rooms.

  Most have holes in the sheetrock that enables me to see in more than one at a time but some do not and have to be searched individually. In one such room, I step out onto the balcony, which is empty.

  But as I’m turning to go back in the room I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, as in the pale moonlight, Tim is jumping from one balcony to another.

  He’s two rooms down from me heading back in the direction we have just come from.

  Instead of following him from balcony to balcony, I run back through the room, down the walkway, and into the room that should be connected to the next balcony he jumps to.

  Trying to rush through the room, I trip on an overturned table and hit the damp, soured floor hard.

  By the time I’m up and out onto the balcony, he has already passed it.

  But I’m there in time to see that as he lands on the balcony of the next room, the corner of the railing gives and he begins to fall.

  Flinging his body around and trying to grab another part of the railing just causes him to fall at a much more awkward angle, and he hits his neck on the top of the railing below, causing his head to snap in a violent and unnatural motion that appears to break his neck before falling to his death on the beach below.

  Slowly and carefully, I ease out to the edge of the balcony I’m standing on and look down.

  His body is splayed like that of a suicide victim on the duneless beach, as not far from him the dim tide rolling in beneath the pale half-moon looks like blood.

  58

  The irony of the killer who made his murders appear to be accidents dying accidentally is lost on no one.

  It seems as though every article written and every TV and radio report aired lead with it as if they are the first to do so.

  It doesn’t take long for members of Tim’s own profession to rip off his mask of sanity and reveal the monster hidden beneath.

  His early life had been a tortured, chaotic existence with a severely abusive alcoholic mother and a series of sadist stepfathers.

  As could be predicted, Tim started setting fires and torturing and killing small animals in his youth. It appears in early adolescence he turned to a teacher, a social worker, and a priest for help, and was rejected, neglected, and sexually abused.

  His history of violence and brutality are just coming to light, as are his various triggers, but it appears when his story is written he’ll be among the most prolific compulsive killers of our time.

  As is the case with killers like this, people—both experts and laymen alike—uncomfortable with ambiguity search for answers, attempt explanations. Is a predator like this born or made? Why did he do what he did? Why did he do it the way he did it?

  Though the details are unclear and the reporting is intentionally vague, some have suggested that during Tropical Storm Barry, which hit Tampa Bay in June 2007, Tim experienced a life-altering event that inspired his particular brand of psycho
pathology. It seems that in a minor storm-related traffic accident, the only person to show Tim any kindness was killed while Tim, in the seat beside her, was completely unscathed—at least physically.

  I’m sure by the time the final story is told, the blood on her face will have been said to have formed the shape of a chaos symbol.

  People want answers, and in the absence of any—especially when it comes to the nature of evil—they fill the void with whatever they can find. But how can you explain the random killing of vulnerable strangers by a man who seemed on the surface about as normal as everyone else?

  I cannot.

  I will not.

  What I will do is mourn his many victims and be grateful every day there will never be another.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Bucky is saying. “I mean . . . I know it’s true. I don’t doubt it. I just can’t believe it.”

  His shock is not unusual. But instead of a neighbor saying what a nice, quiet young man Tim was, it’s the person who spent the most time with him, his professional partner that he traveled with, ate with, even shared a room with.

  We are standing in the back parking lot of the sheriff’s station. He has just finished his final interview and is about to head back to Tampa. I’m about to head home for some much needed time with Anna and the girls.

  “I guess I am as dumb as he said I was,” he says. “I just can’t believe I had no idea. None. At all.”

  “Until recently no one was even aware there were murders to suspect someone of,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Yeah. I guess. But . . . to not suspect anything . . . At all.”

  “Sociopaths like him are very good at hiding behind their mask of sanity,” I say. “I doubt anyone in your position would have suspected him.”

  “How’d he even do it?” he asks. “We were together most of the time.”

  “We found most of the victims in their pajamas,” I say. “They were abducted or killed in the middle of the night or in the early morning hours before dawn.”

  “So he just snuck out while I was sleeping and . . . went hunting?”

  “My guess is he drugged your last drink of the night,” I say.