by Michael Beck
"He's very organized," said Bob. "A lot of this stuff I just remember and wouldn't bother to write down."
I kept turning the pages. A pencil drawing of a young boy. Then a young girl. And another. And another.
"How many?" whispered Bob.
I counted them. "Eight girls."
Underneath each drawing was a name and date. "It's the name and date of each teenager he killed."
"And one boy. Who is he?"
"Jesus Fernandez. Bailey could only remember the full name of one victim. That was Jesus."
"I thought he targeted only young girls, except for the good men whose hearts he stole?"
"That's right."
"So this Jesus Fernandez is an exception? That makes him important, doesn't it? Who is he? Why did Bailey kill him?"
"I don't know. But you're right. He is important. Why did Bailey kill a boy when obviously his preferred victims were girls?"
I continued flicking through the book. "That's funny," I said, after a while.
"What?"
"Apart from Jesus, he couldn't remember most of the victim's names in the police interview, but he has them all here. And look how worn the book is. He obviously looked at it a lot."
I stopped turning the pages as a thought occurred to me. "The book," I whispered.
"What?"
"It's the book. The police asked Bailey to name all of his victims and he couldn't. He told them to look in the book. He said they were all in the book. The police thought he meant his Bible. It was the obvious conclusion because that's where all of the quotations he used came from. But he didn't. He meant this." I held up the book. "Don't you see? It's not a record of his victims. It's so he can remember. It's a memory book."
"Why does he need a memory book? He's only in his late fifties, isn't he?"
"It could be any number of things. Parkinson's disease, a brain tumor or he may have sustained a head injury at some time. He could have some kind of psychological condition, which wouldn't be a surprise considering what he's done. Even chronic abuse of drugs and alcohol can cause memory loss."
"So that's why he's drawn and recorded all of his victim's faces, names and dates," said Bob.
"Not all."
"What do you mean?"
"None of the men are here. Where are my parents?"
CHAPTER 61
I took Decker home from training the next day. I didn't mention Ashley Hunter or Kyle King again, preferring to let him stew on it.
The team doctor had been happy with the improvement in Decker's arm and leg when he examined him. Instead of being relieved, Decker seemed preoccupied and dejected.
He used his remote control to open the gates. "Thanks for the lift," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Decker slipped through the gates as I drove off. I glanced in my rearview mirror. A dark shadow was moving through the bushes behind Decker. I slammed on my brakes, put the car into reverse and floored the accelerator. I struck the gates as they were still closing. There was an almighty bang and one of the gates broke off its hinges and dropped on the roof of the Beetle.
I kept the accelerator to the floor and drove backwards through a hedge. I had a sudden, terrible thought: Did Decker have a gardener? Just then a dark figure spun around and threw an iron bar at me. The back window shattered just before I hit him. He went flying through the air and landed in a rose bed ten feet away.
Decker was grappling with another dark figure, who also held a short, metal bar.
Just as he raised the bar, I kicked him in the back of the leg. He grunted and fell to the ground. I dropped on his back and the air exploded out of him. Grabbing the metal bar, I rolled him over. He fought back until I pressed the bar to his throat.
He made a gurgling noise and lay still.
"Don't move unless you want to spend the rest of your life using sign language. You all right?" I said to Decker over my shoulder.
"Yeah. I'm okay."
Decker climbed to his feet and came to me as I pulled off the thug's ski-mask. He was white, had a flat boxer's nose and deep acne scars across his cheeks.
"No wonder you're wearing a ski-mask. That's some ugly face you have there. Do you recognize him?" I said to Decker.
"Never seen him before."
The guy I was sitting on was big but I could feel his soft paunch underneath my butt. "Hey." I slapped his face. "What's your name?"
"I don't think he can talk while you're crushing his larynx," said Decker.
"Good point." I lifted the bar off his throat. "Hey, Crater-face. What's your name?"
"Gus Connolly." he wheezed.
"Well, Gus, do you want to tell me what you were going to do with that bar?"
Gus gulped and his eyes flicked to Decker.
"Come on, Gus. Or do you want me to put this back?" I pressed the bar against his throat.
He gasped and shook his head violently from side to side.
"Well?" I released the pressure.
"I wasn't going to really hurt him. I was only going to kneecap him, that's all."
"I don't know if Mr. Decker will see it quite the same way. Who are you working for?"
"I don't know. I got a phone call and some guy said he'd pay me a thousand bucks for the job. It was easy money so I said sure."
"Not looking so easy now, eh? Have you worked for this guy before?"
"No."
"Ever been paid to wear Sylvester and Elmer Fudd masks?"
"What?"
"It was Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck," whispered Decker in my ear.
I raised my eyebrows at Decker. "Like it makes a difference? Well?" I said to Gus.
"No, no. Never."
"Where's the thousand bucks?"
"In my pocket."
"Give it to me."
He looked unsurely at me.
"Hey, you didn't do the job so hand it over."
I took the money and put it in my pocket. I could feel Decker's eyes on me.
"Hey, look at my Beetle. This clown can at least help me pay for it." I held the metal bar up. "Do you still think that no one is out to get you?"
Decker's eyes swung from the bar to me. "Sorry about your car." He turned and trudged back up the driveway.
CHAPTER 62
Kara King was completing her show jumping course on Thunder. I had always thought of equestrian eventing as pretty geeky, if not downright effeminate. What with the jodhpurs, jackets and jaunty helmets, the sport didn't actually come across as the most macho I'd ever seen.
But in the twenty minutes I'd been there, two horses had already come crashing down while attempting a six foot high fence. The second horse, after it fell, rolled over its female rider, who was about as big as my niece, Lucy. The girl jumped up and, without a thought to herself, ran her hands over the horse like it was a kindergarten kid that had taken a wee tumble and not a seventeen-hands-tall, two-thousand-pound brute. In fact, many of the riders perched on top of these enormous, heaving, cantankerous creatures seemed to be small women. At times I have trouble parking my Beetle, and here were these tiny girls weaving these capricious monsters through a labyrinth of giant fences and water jumps. And all with smiles on their faces.
I had tried to catch Dedrick at his Long Island mansion but he had refused to see me. Odd. It had been several days since I'd seen him, and most people would be missing me terribly by that stage.
Dedrick had seemed besotted by his daughter. My guess was that he would accompany her to her equestrian eventing competition. Eventing struck me as an eclectic mix: cross-county, dressage and show jumping. Cross country and show jumping were highly dangerous and physically demanding of horse and rider. Dressage was like ballet on a horse, but without the tights. The whole event seemed like the organizers had combined a beauty pageant with a Special Forces obstacle course.
I found King standing at the entrance gate to the show-jumping course. I made my way towards him through the crowd, most of whom were eating and drinking at white tables with white umbrell
as overhead. SUVs and horse-trailers ringed the field, lending the event a kind of festive, picnic atmosphere--if it weren't for the fact that a girl was being thrown through the air and crushed every few minutes.
I wondered how King could watch his daughter compete in such a dangerous event. If I had kids, I'd lock them up before allowing them to ride in one of these damn things. And then I saw his hands. He was gripping the fence rail so tight they were turning white.
"She's doing well," I said.
He started. "Mr. Tanner, I thought I'd be seeing you again."
"Just count yourself lucky."
"I don't think that's quite the feedback I'm getting about you."
"Jealous, envious people. They've been the bane of my life."
"Somehow, I feel you've been the bane of a lot of people's lives."
I inclined my head towards Kara. "She's a beautiful rider."
"Yes, she hasn't any faults."
"What? Not even playing her music too loud?"
"I meant she has no point deductions. Oh, was that a joke? I'm sorry, I don't have much of a sense of humor when Kara is competing. What can I do for you, Mr. Tanner? Or do I need to ask?"
"I just have one small question."
"I doubt if you ever have one small question."
"I was wondering why your Insurance Company was paying Henry Hunter all that money for his accident when his insurance claim was rejected by your claim adjustors."
King's attention swung away from Kara towards me for a moment.
"Insurance claims aren't always black and white. You may not think it, but sometimes even insurance companies put ethical and moral obligations before money."
"But Hunter was drunk. You owed him nothing."
"He also was a loyal, hard-working employee. Should a multi-million dollar business shy away from helping an employee just because of one mistake? And just for the sake of the amount of money we would spend on toilet paper over a year?"
"So, it was all to do with him being a loyal employee and nothing to do with the fact that Tammy Hunter used to be your girlfriend?"
King shrugged. "They went hand in hand. Of course, I didn't want to see Tammy living in hardship, but I also didn't want to see an employee just cast aside. Does that make me a bad employer?"
"On the contrary, it makes you a rarity. You don't meet many employers as generous as that."
The crowd broke into applause as Kara cleared the last jump.
No penalties came up against her on the scoreboard. "Has she won?"
"No, we have the cross country event to go."
He opened the gate as she rode toward us. Kara's cheeks were red and glowing and a huge grin split her face.
"Well done, Kara. You were great," he said.
"Did you see Thunder take the big triple? Wasn't he awesome?" she said, while continually patting Thunder's neck. Thunder's chest was rising and falling like a giant bellows and white froth dripped from his mouth.
"I think you were pretty awesome," I said.
"Mr. Tanner, what are you doing here?"
"Your dad invited me. Said you were the best rider I'd ever see. And you know, he was right."
Kara blushed but I could see she was pleased. "I've got to take care of Thunder. Nice seeing you again, Mr. Tanner."
"Call me Mark. The only time I get called Mister is when the police arrest me."
"Does that happen a lot?"
"More than you could ever guess."
She laughed and rode off. Just then a commotion began where a crowd was gathered halfway around the outside of the course. Most of the people were holding cameras or microphones. The group shifted and I suddenly saw Kyle King. His head turned and for a moment we were looking right at each other.
"Kyle's campaign seems to be going well," I said. "The latest polls give him a strong chance of winning."
"Nothing is certain in politics," he said.
"One thing is certain."
"Oh? And what's that?"
"That if any whiff of the Thanksgiving weekend became public, Kyle would have as much chance of winning a seat in the Senate as I would of becoming President."
"Is that a threat, Mr. Tanner?"
"No. On the contrary, what would Kyle do to keep the story of that weekend quiet? Someone has twice tried to kill me."
"After knowing you this short time, that strikes me as a quite low number."
"That's probably true. But I think right now your son has more motivation than anyone."
"I told you before, Kyle has nothing to hide."
"No, Mr. King, I don't think that's what you said at all. And that's the interesting thing. I don't think you've ever actually said your son wasn't there."
King nodded, almost tiredly. "I think I told you last time, Mr. Tanner, to forget about that weekend. Kyle is my son and I love him." He regarded me bleakly. "But you don't know my son. You don't want him angry at you. He's a lot like me when I was young."
"Why aren't you like that now?"
"Like I said. Time changes you. Things that mattered then don't matter to me anymore."
"Then why not tell me about that weekend? You can't hurt the dead."
"It's not the dead I'm thinking of. Goodbye, Mr. Tanner." He stepped around another incoming rider and followed his daughter.
I started to go after him, and then stopped. Kyle King's press-secretary, Donovan, was standing only feet away from me. Three tours of Afghanistan had given me pretty good awareness. I couldn't remember the last time someone was able to sneak up on me.
Donovan was standing as still as a fence post as he watched me through sleepy, half-closed eyes. He had that same reptilian half-smile on his face, with that damn toothpick still stuck in the corner of his mouth.
I moved closer to him but he didn't even blink. "Hey, Lizard-Breath, been to the Rockies lately? No? What about some rifle shooting? Do you own a rifle? The guy I'm looking for can't shoot worth a damn. Missed me in broad daylight. He must be cross-eyed and have the nerves of a puppy to miss that shot. Some guys are just not cut out for it. I've seen their type before. They were whiny little losers at school who couldn't buy a friend and grew up to be angry, little, tough guys, who would run at the drop of the hat. You know the type I mean?"
Donovan still stood motionless but I felt hate and anger emanating from him like fumes from a gas pump. With one quick flick I pulled the toothpick out of his mouth, snapped it in half and dropped it. "Haven't you heard? Toothpicks damage the enamel. Try dental floss."
I walked away. When I glanced back he still hadn't moved. Horses stepped around him as if he were some immoveable object. The only movement came from his eyes which were fixed on me like the scope hairs of a rifle. Looks like I had made another friend.
CHAPTER 63
Bear and I had just finished a self-defense class for women. Thirty sweaty women stood around in small clusters, re-hydrating and chatting, while Bear and I packed away our equipment.
"The thing that gets me is how is a guy, who needs a memory book to remember his victim's names, able to plan and execute up to eighteen murders without any one suspecting him," I was saying to Bear.
"It might just be a recent thing. He may have sustained some kind of head injury just lately."
I pictured the book in my mind.
"I don't know. The book appeared pretty worn. I would guess it is years old rather than months. Cupid was meticulous. He never left any DNA traces at any crime scene and I'm guessing there are probably at least three of his victims we haven't even found yet. And this was done by some sixty-year-old, brain-addled priest? I just don't know."
"Age has nothing to do with it. Remember those two grandparents from Missouri back in the 1980's who killed about twelve drifters? They were in their sixties or seventies."
"The Copelands? Yeah, but they also prove my point. They got caught because they hadn't buried the bodies properly. As I recall, someone just happened to stumble across a skull on their farm. You can't go around just k
nocking people off and get away with it. You have to be cunning and have your wits about you. Father Bailey is scared witless."
"Excuse me." Two pretty young women had come up behind me. Both wore leotards. One was blonde the other a brunette.
"Yes, ladies?" said Bear.
The blonde ignored him and said to me, "This is probably a stupid question but aren't you Mark Rennat, the quarterback?"
"No, I'm afraid not," I said.
"You're the spitting image of him. He plays for the Turbos."
"Stands on the sidelines for the Turbos is what I heard," said Bear.
"We're both big time Turbos fans," the brunette said.
"What's he look like?" I couldn't resist asking.
"He's tall, blond and pretty buff. Kind of like a young Brad Pitt."
"I can't picture him. What about you, Bear? You seen this blond, buff Brad Pitt?"
"Yeah. I think I have. I heard he was gay. Word is he's got a thing for older men."
"Ew! Really?" said the blonde.
"Queer as a three dollar bill I hear," Bear agreed.
My cell rang. Fulton. I walked away from the girls.
"Tan? I've just seen the medical report on Bailey. He's been diagnosed as suffering from advanced Alzheimer's."
"Isn't he a little young for that? I thought most people only get the first symptoms at around sixty."
"I'm going to see his GP to find out more. I'll let you know what he says."
"You sure he's not just trying this on?"
"I don't think so. You saw the tape. He was pretty confused."
"So, how does a person with Alzheimer's plan eighteen perfect murders?"
"Sixteen, remember? He was surprised in two of them."
"Only by pure luck."
"Tan, you're the one who fingered him, remember?"
"Yeah, well, now I'm not so sure."
"Tan, we found nine bodies in his basement. How do you think they got there? Of course he did it. The question is not if he did it. The question is will he be tried."
"You think they'll find him mentally incompetent?"
"Possibly. He might be sentenced to a psychiatric facility."
