Smoke

by Joe Ide

  Crowe and Warren started off running, but neither of them were in shape and the altitude here was like outer space. After the first forty yards they were heaving with their hands on their knees. They heard the black guy shouting.

  “Who’s that?” Warren said. He thought a moment and glared. “You didn’t tell me about him, did you, you asshole?”

  “One of us has to go back for him,” Crowe said between gasps.

  “You,” Warren said, and before Crowe could react, Warren went after the couple, calling over his shoulder, “You’re bigger and you’ve got a gun.”

  There was a time during the Walczak case when reading footprints would have been very useful. Since then, Isaiah had studied up on the subject, like he always did when there was something relevant to learn. Crowe and his friend would be moving the fastest. They were the most likely to leave traces that would indicate direction. Unfortunately, most of the ground was covered with dry pine needles that wouldn’t take a print. There were only patches of dirt. He’d stick to those.

  Arbitrarily, Isaiah went left and began “side heading,” turning his head sideways and low to the ground. The bottom eye scans the ground. The top eye sees a few feet ahead. Ridges and shadows are more visible this way. When you’re running, your feet scuff the ground, and dirt is thrown out of your tracks. Sometimes you can see the scuffs, if they’re reasonably fresh. But the dirt patches were dry, and there were dozens of prints going in both directions. Isaiah moved with agonizing slowness, on his hands and knees, his head three inches above the ground and angled sideways. Patience, Isaiah. Inch by inch, he continued. It was hot, his neck hurt. His face was so close to the ground he was inhaling dirt. He kept stopping to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. He had to stay focused and concentrate or the kids would most certainly die. But how far should he go before he tried the other path? His neck was cramping. Focus, Isaiah, focus.

  He saw what might be a fresh track. He stood up and looked down on it. Yes, it was fresh. Part of the sole pattern was still there. It was a sneaker. Both men were wearing sneakers. Did it belong to Crowe, his friend or someone else? If the print was complete, it would be about eleven inches in length, and that translated into a size ten and a half shoe. The corresponding heights ranged from five-ten to six-two. Crowe was six-two. His friend was shorter, but the print fell within the parameters. The ball of the foot was the deepest. An indication that the person was running. Isaiah took off.

  Warren was ready to drop. He wasn’t walking so much as he was staggering. He was light-headed, and his lungs sounded like worn-out brakes. He stopped. He saw them. The boy and the girl. They were forty, fifty yards ahead, talking, no idea he was there. The girl was the one he’d seen at the motel. Juicy, just like Crowe had said. He wondered how to do this. He couldn’t run up on them, he could barely walk, and they’d hear him long before he got there. It was hard to think when you could hardly fucking breathe. Something came to him. They were too far away to shout at. He had to keep going.

  Isaiah trotted along the path, his breathing steady. He’d adapted to the altitude. He was scared, expecting at any moment to see Billy and Ava lying in the dirt, cut to pieces, Crowe and his buddy standing over their bodies, waving their bloody knives. He hoped he’d read the prints right. He smelled pine needles, tree resin and dust. Lots of dust motes were hanging in the air. He was going in the right direction.

  This section of the trail was slightly downhill. He sped up, grateful for the help. He caught another smell as he approached the next bend. It was human. It was sweat. Someone was on the other side of the bend. He tried to stop, but he was going too fast. He slipped in the dirt, his feet going out from under him just as the blade of a big knife sliced through the space he’d just vacated.

  “Godammit!” Crowe shouted.

  Isaiah fell on his butt, scrambled to his feet and reached for the baton. He’d dropped it. Crowe came toward him. He was much bigger in person, his hair plastered to his wide forehead, breathing in huffs, his thick lips dry and chapped, his pupils filling the whole eye. He looked like a mutant hyena.

  “Forget something?” Crowe said. He kicked the baton away. The Bowie was in its sheath. He raised a gun. “Before I kill you, who are you? What do you want?”

  “I’m nobody,” Isaiah said. “I just want to keep those kids out of harm’s way. That’s all. Nothing else.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “I know you’ve got a gun and a knife. Other than that, nothing.”

  Crowe gestured. “Down there.” Off the trail, maybe thirty yards away, was a gulley. He grinned. “A good place to hide your body.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Be Cool, Isaiah

  Billy and Ava turned around and headed back to Isaiah’s house, Billy slowing the pace, drawing it out.

  “I’m not going back to the hospital, Ava,” he said. “I can’t. I won’t.”

  “Then what? Be a fugitive? I mean, I can’t stop you. It’s your choice, but eventually they’ll catch you.”

  “I want to help you get Crowe.”

  “You already have, Billy. You’re making this harder.”

  The words slipped out before he could stop them. “I want to be with you.” There was an awful silence. “Never mind,” he mumbled.

  She put her hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Billy. Let’s talk about it later, okay?”

  A man was lurching toward them. “Help, I need help.” His hair was greasy, his whole body was weeping sweat. His chest going in and out like he was sucking air through a straw. His shirt was open. His ribs and clavicle stuck out.

  “Are you okay?” Ava said. She started to move toward him, but Billy grabbed her arm. His innate suspicion was on high alert. What was this guy doing out here? If he needed help why was he going farther into the woods?

  “What’s the matter?” Billy said.

  “I’m sick, I’m really sick,” the man wheezed.

  “Sick how?”

  “I don’t know, I’m just sick.”

  “You don’t know how you’re sick?” Billy said. He noticed the tattoos on the man’s arms; crude, thick lines, little detail. Prison tats.

  “I’m just sick, okay? I’m fucking sick!” the man said. “I need help, okay?” Embarrassed, Ava tugged on Billy’s sleeve.

  “Billy, I think he’s really sick.”

  “See?” the man said. “Listen to your girlfriend.”

  This guy is bullshitting, Billy thought. “If you need help you should go back in the other direction. You know, where the people are?”

  “Are you gonna help me or not?” the man said, his expression darkening.

  “Help you how?” Billy said. “We’re not doctors, and we don’t have any water. Like I said, go back the way you came.” The man took a few steps forward. Billy backed up, taking Ava’s elbow and pulling her with him. “Come on, Ava, something weird is happening.”

  The man’s face was crinkling and buckling. He looked like an invisible hand was crushing his head like a soda can. His teeth looked loose, his gums were black. He slipped his hand behind him.

  “He’s got a weapon, Ava! Run!” Billy shouted. She raced off. The man started after her, but Billy didn’t move. The man had a knife. It was big and shiny. Billy recognized the shape. A Bowie.

  “I’m gonna cut your goddamn head off,” the man said.

  AMSAK’s victims were killed with a Bowie. That couldn’t be a coincidence. This guy and Crowe were buds. “Oh, I get it now,” Billy said. “You were the copycat, weren’t you? You’re Crowe’s partner.” The man started forward, waving the blade back and forth. Billy retreated, keeping the same distance between them. He wanted Ava to get well away. The man hawked up a loogie and spit. It landed on his shoe.

  “Fuck,” he said. Billy heard Ava coming up behind him.

  “Are you okay?” she said.

  “Go back, Ava. This asshole has got a knife!” Billy shouted. “Hurry, get out of here!” She was beside Billy now. She saw the Bo
wie knife. Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t budge.

  “Who is he?” she said.

  “Crowe’s partner.”

  “Then he killed Hannah too.”

  The man was reeling. “I’m going to get you. I’m going to slit you down the middle.”

  Ava was expressionless, save for her eyes, so focused and concentrated Billy wondered why the man didn’t detonate. The rest of her was like the bow of a battleship, cutting through a heavy sea, impenetrable, unforgiving and coming right at your shitty little rowboat. She started toward the man.

  “Ava?” Billy said. He took her arm, but she shrugged him off.

  “Stay out of this.” She went closer until she was a body’s length away from the man. He lunged with the knife. Billy cried out, but Ava dodged away, stirring up a haze of dust.

  “Ava, please don’t do this!” Billy said.

  She circled around the man, nodding, still expressionless, still the battleship. The man turned with her.

  “Ava, come on, I’m begging you!” Billy pleaded.

  “I said stay out of it, Billy!”

  Ava kept circling. The man couldn’t keep her in front of him.

  “Stay still, goddammit!” Clumsily, he charged.

  “Watch it, Ava!” Billy shouted. Deftly, Ava stepped aside.

  “Shut up, Billy.”

  The man charged twice more but didn’t come close. The air was cloudy with dust, the sun bright and hard. Ava was tight but under control. Her breathing was harsh but even. The man was drooling and making animal sounds.

  “You bitch. I’m gonna get you!” he blubbered. He gathered what was left of himself and gave it one more try, plodding toward her, screaming and holding the knife like he was giving her change. She backed up, backed up, letting him build up speed. He was almost on top of her, when she quickly stepped aside, the man going past her, tripping over a tree root and smashing headfirst into a stump. There was an ugly thud, the knife flying away. Billy winced. The man curled up like a mealworm, groaning, both hands on his head.

  Ava stood over him. “You killed my sister, didn’t you? You killed Hannah.”

  “No! No! It was Crowe! He did everything!”

  “And where were you?” Ava said. “Watching? Is that what you did? You watched my sister die?” She fell to her knees beside him. “Did you hear me? I said, did you watch my sister die?”

  “You’re too close to him, Ava. Get back!” Billy said. She ignored him and pried one of the man’s hands loose. “You killed her too, didn’t you?”

  The man’s groans were mixed with sobs, his face caked with sweat and mud and blood. He shook his head. “No, no, no…” Ava grabbed a bunch of his hair, steadied him, then scooped up a handful of dirt and shoved it in his mouth. It was more shocking than a gunshot. The man thrashed, choked, sitting up to spit and claw the muck out of his mouth. He was hysterical, making strangling sounds and coughing violently. Ava stood up and searched around with her eyes.

  “What are you looking for?” Billy asked. She picked up the Bowie knife. “No, Ava!” She gave him a look so heated he stepped back two paces. She stood over the man and glowered down at him. Her teeth were bared, her face a mess of sweat, dirt and rage, her eyes blazing like road flares. She nudged him with her foot.

  “Look at me,” she said. “I said look at me!” The man had curled up again, his filthy hands over his face. He peered up at her between his fingers. “Do I look familiar?” she said.

  “What? I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? That’s funny. Because Hannah and I are twins. I loved her. Hannah was the best thing in the world and you and Crowe murdered her!”

  “No, no, I swear I didn’t. Crowe did everything!”

  “Liar!”

  The man turned over on his stomach and started to crawl away. She fell on him, her knee in his back, pinning him to the ground. He grunted, the wind knocked out of him. She hit him viciously with the heavy butt of the knife. “Tell me what you did!” she snarled. He cried out but didn’t speak. She hit him again.

  “Stop! Please stop!” he sobbed.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time, and if you tell me the truth, I’ll be satisfied and let you go.”

  “You will?” he croaked.

  “Yes, I will.” The man didn’t reply, making a raspy uhhhh with every breath. “I meant what I said,” Ava said, reassuringly. She put the point of the knife in his ear. “But if you lie to me…”

  “Okay, I did it,” the man said. “I did it with Crowe.” Ava’s eyes turned black. Her nostrils flared, the slack snapped out of her body, all quivering sinew and unleashed fury. She screamed and raised the knife over her head with two hands.

  “Ava, don’t!” Billy shouted. Ava hesitated, shaking, savage. “Ava, please!” She hesitated, then stood and threw the knife away. The man had passed out. A quiet fell, the kind you only hear in the forest, where every shifting breeze, creaking branch and humming insect played a symphony of peace. Ava stood there, motionless. Billy tried to hug her, but she wrested herself away and walked off down the path.

  Isaiah slogged through the trees toward the gulley, Crowe behind him with the gun. “How’s it feel, huh?” the killer said. “Knowing you’re gonna die? Most people cry and scream and beg. What are you, a tough guy? We’ll see about that.” Isaiah wanted to provoke him, make him mad. Make him use the knife.

  “All those women you killed,” he said. “Takes a big man to do something like that. Takes a lot of courage.”

  “If I were you, I’d shut up,” Crowe said.

  Serial killers define themselves by their fantasies. No one can stop you, you’re too smart, too powerful. The whole world is afraid of you. You are the king, master of all you see. Bow down, motherfuckers. So they don’t really like it when you challenge that fantasy. It yanks them back to reality and calls them out as losers and cowards who slaughter the helpless. They have to prove you wrong. They have to preserve the fantasy. If they don’t, they are what you say they are.

  “Proud of being a murderer? A filthy shit people think is garbage?” Isaiah said.

  “I’m gonna fuck you up so bad you’ll be crying for Mama,” Crowe growled.

  “You’re about to shoot me in the back, aren’t you?” Isaiah stopped and turned around to face him. “You don’t have the guts to go man to man. You’re a pussy, Crowe. You couldn’t hurt me with that knife if I was blindfolded.” Crowe’s grip tightened on the gun, a fluttering tic under his eye. He’s gonna shoot you, Isaiah. He’s going to fucking shoot you!

  “I’m telling you, asshole,” Crowe snarled. “Shut your mouth.”

  Isaiah gestured like he was helping Crowe park. “Come on, you coward. Do something.” Crowe raised the gun and aimed it at Isaiah’s face. He’s going to shoot you, he’s going to blow your fucking head off! “What’s the problem? Afraid to use that big bad knife? Good thing for you. I’d take it away and jam it down your throat.”

  “Oh, you think so?” Crowe said. Veins were popping out on his forehead, his sweat like three coats of shellac. Isaiah had seen a lot of terrifying expressions before, but Crowe’s was an abomination, the semblance of a human face after the blowflies had gone, grotesque and decaying, sockets for eyes, hate pouring from the hollows.

  “If you’re afraid to use it, you might as well throw it away,” Isaiah said.

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” Crowe said.

  “Except me.”

  Crowe jammed the gun in his belt and slowly drew the Bowie. You knew it was deadly sharp. You knew its heft would cut deep and go all the way to your spine. Crowe tested the point with his fingertip.

  “Let’s go,” he said. He came forward, smiling, knees bent, the knife in front of him. Isaiah backed away, considering his next move. He knew about knife fighting. Ari, his Krav Maga teacher, had taught him. You have to be close in to stab somebody, the length of your arm, and ironically, Isaiah needed Crowe that close to defend himself. Wait for an attack and you were done for.
You had to act preemptively, a split second before your opponent makes his move. Isaiah knew the gulley was close behind him. He couldn’t see it, he had to sense it. He took smaller and smaller steps. He felt the ground sloping and stopped. It wasn’t more than a foot behind him. The distance between himself and Crowe was closing, the killer’s grin more gruesome than the blade.

  “Well, shithead,” Isaiah said, “what are you waiting for?”

  Crowe screamed and came forward, his feet wide apart, shifting his shoulders, drawing his elbow back to thrust the knife forward. In the same instant, Isaiah stepped in to him, his left hand shooting out, grabbing Crowe at the crook of his elbow, trapping the knife against his side. Almost simultaneously, he threw a right that hit Crowe in the throat. Crowe choked and gagged. He staggered sideways and fell into the brush. He thrashed and floundered, trying to get up and draw the gun out at the same time. Isaiah raced away, Crowe shooting at him, BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! bullets cutting branches as he wove through the trees.

  He met Ava and Billy on the path. They exchanged quick stories and hurried back to the house. Nobody said anything until they were in Isaiah’s kitchen, drinking water and breathing hard. He didn’t think the killers would come back. They were too beat up.

  “You have to call Cannon,” he said.

  “We’re not exactly credible,” Billy said. Isaiah shook his head disgustedly. He patted his pockets for his phone. He’d left it on the breakfast table.

  “So the gang’s all here,” Cannon said as he came in the front door. Billy and Ava were sitting on the sofa looking at their knees. “What’s up, Billy boy? I should have known you’d be here, and you must be the young lady who called me and told me Crowe was here in Coronado Springs.”

  “I told you the truth. He’s here,” she said.