The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  The click of the door latch is my answer.

  By the time I’ve reached my car, I have a growing feeling that I’ve just been played.

  56

  I pull into the parking lot of the Nature Reserve where Oberton works and head towards the main building. Behind me the Mustang’s engine is ticking. If it was human it’d be gasping for breath.

  Entering the long, low building, I find the ticket kiosk and push to the head of the queue, ignoring the loud protests of a Canadian-sounding woman with more than her fair share of dewlaps. The woman issuing tickets is a regular at the Tree and recognises I’m not being rude for the hell of it.

  I memorise her instructions on how to get to where Angus Oberton will be working. As I thank her and make for the door she’s pointing at, the Canadian woman steps in front of me to share her indignation. And halitosis.

  I don’t bother to hide the involuntary recoil my body gives as she gets into my face. ‘Excuse me, young man, but it’s about time you learned to show some manners and not barge your way to the front of a queue like that.’

  Contenting myself with the knowledge that if she’d been male I’d have knocked her unconscious by now, I put my right hand on her right shoulder and start walking forward.

  The move is designed to either force her backwards or spin her enough to allow me past.

  Something in my eyes must tell her I’m not going to take her nonsense as she yields before I’ve taken a second step.

  I can hear her shifting her aim onto the girl in the kiosk and offer thanks she hasn’t tried to follow me.

  It only takes me a few seconds to make my way through the back rooms of the centre. I find the exit door and turn the handle with care.

  I wonder if I should don one of the ranger uniforms hanging from a peg before going outside. Deciding against it, I go outside and find myself on a worn trail through dense bushes.

  There’s a vibration in my pocket. When I retrieve my cell, I see I have a new message.

  ARE YOU STILL ALIVE? I KNOW I’M ONLY YOUR MOTHER BUT IT WOULD BE NICE TO BE KEPT INFORMED OF SUCH DETAILS.

  As usual when reading her messages, I’m not sure whether to smile or to launch the cell into orbit.

  I settle for sending back the happy emoticon. I don’t like using them, but I know she despises them with a hatred she normally reserves for politicians and rap musicians.

  As I advance forward, I assess my options. If the killer is already stalking Oberton, seeing me approaching his target will scare him off. In a similar vein, if I try to find a good vantage point to watch over him, I could either warn the killer of my presence or stumble across him.

  I’ve no problem with an encounter, but I’m realistic enough to know the killer is too clever an opponent to be found by chance. The likelihood is he’ll be aware of me coming and will set an ambush.

  There’s no point in cursing myself for not having thought about this on the journey here. That can wait. I follow the trail until I reach the end of the cover afforded by the bushes and shrubs.

  The trail winds through the scrubland but I can follow it with my eyes. It goes towards a low valley between two hillocks. According to the kiosk girl, Oberton should be working in a cleft a few hundred yards into the valley.

  I look over the terrain hoping I’ll see something to inspire my next move. I see plenty of sage brush amid the sparse rocky ground but not a lot of cover.

  Decision time beckons me. Waves me forward into making a choice.

  Covert or blatant?

  As I take a half step to my right with the intention of trying to sneak into a good vantage point, I hear a scream.

  It’s not one of excitement or laughter. It’s a scream of pure terror.

  Instinct takes over my body. Legs and arms pump as I race towards the scream. My eyes are scanning the public areas I’m racing towards. Rapidly they assess the body language of everyone I see. I ignore the turned heads of people looking to identify the screamer. It’s the rigid stance of the horrified I’m looking for.

  My heart sinks when I find her. A girl of about twelve is wrapped in what I assume are her mother’s arms. Her mouth is wide open as more screams pour forth, while her eyes are screwed tight in case they again see whatever made her scream.

  I hear soft words of comfort. Gentle questions about what’s wrong but I don’t hear anything from the girl except screams.

  I can guess what has caused her distress. It’s what I steel myself to look for now. Angus Oberton. The latest victim.

  The mother takes steps backwards rather than letting go of her daughter. I approach them – my intention is to guide the mother so she doesn’t trip. A man sprints around the corner.

  My fist is clenched and travelling back ready to surge forward, when I see the concern on his face.

  He sees the cocked arm and lifts his own hands.

  I drop my fists but his stay raised as he advances towards me.

  This is the last thing I want. Right now I’m more concerned about finding whatever made the girl scream than fighting anyone.

  ‘Olly. It’s okay. He’s helping us.’

  The hands go down as Olly embraces the woman and girl.

  ‘What happened? What’s wrong?’ He bends his lanky frame so he’s on a level with the girl who has her face buried into the woman’s neck. ‘What’s up, Harriet?’

  She doesn’t answer him. Her head saws back and forth. Another scream escapes her lips, this one longer and more piercing now her brain has had time to process and embellish whatever caused her screams.

  I catch the mother’s eye. ‘Where was Harriet when she first screamed?’

  She points at a seat cut from a tree stump.

  ‘Wait here, please.’ I walk over to the seat, conscious of the fact that if Oberton has been killed, this family is next in the killer’s sights.

  Standing by the lump of rough-hewn wood, I rotate through three sixty degrees but find nothing. I stoop until my head is at much the same height as Harriet’s would have been. I repeat my sweep.

  Still I see no cause for her terror.

  Thinking like a pre-teen, I climb onto the seat and stand on its highest part.

  Before gaining enough balance to straighten up, I see the cause of her terror. The sight of Angus Oberton’s mutilated body elicits a sharp gasp from me, despite the fact I’m expecting to find something horrible.

  It’s bad, as savage as Kira’s death, with none of the finesse shown to Evie Starr.

  Oberton is in a kneeling position. His head is three quarters severed from his body. A flap of skin holds it upside down with his nose pressed against his breastbone.

  Below the white stubble on his head a large gash has opened his stomach. Blood covered hands appear to have tried and failed to hold in the slippery coils of intestine.

  The wooden handle of a long knife sticks out from a belly swollen by years of unhealthy eating.

  I swallow the bile rising in my throat and force myself to observe every detail I can.

  The only thing holding him in position is his obese frame. Even sliced open, there’s enough gut to support the rest of his body.

  Lifting my eyes, I examine the stump of his neck. The bizarre hinging effect of the remaining skin is unsettling. I can see the severed remains of his spine, throat and arteries. A cloud of flies is already swarming around his head and it’s only a matter of time before other insects and animals become attracted to this unexpected buffet.

  I’m unsure what to do next. I need to keep Harriet and her folks close so the rounding up of her family can start as soon as possible. I also have to make sure nobody tramples over the crime scene.

  Then there’s the question of where Steve is. He could be lying dead somewhere close by or he could be in pursuit of the killer.

  Plus, there’s a possible chance one of the other visitors to the reserve has seen something which could help identify the killer.

  Staying on the stump chair, I pull out my cell and call the
chief to break the news and seek guidance.

  He doesn’t answer so I leave a message demanding he call me at once.

  Harriet and her mother are being guided back towards the entrance by Olly. The move is understandable. I don’t want to be here, and I’m an adult who was expecting to find something grisly.

  Jumping down, I run after them, circling round so they can all see me.

  I give Olly a sideways nod. ‘Can we talk?’

  He’s on the ball and understands the females in his family shouldn’t hear what I’m about to say.

  ‘Harriet sweetie, Daddy needs to talk with this man for a minute.’ He points to a small pool twenty yards away. ‘We’re gonna be just over there where you can see me the whole time, okay.’

  There’s a sniffling nod before she buries her tear-streaked face back into the mother’s neck.

  I follow him towards the pool.

  ‘Let’s be quick about this. I need to get her home.’

  I’ve never had to break any kind of bad news before so I’m unsure of the best way to do it. Guessing it boils down to the same theory as the removal of a sticking plaster, I opt for the quick method.

  ‘Your daughter has just found the latest victim of a serial killer.’ My soft tone so as not to be overheard is at contrast with the hard news it delivers.

  His eyes widen in disbelief and fear. ‘You mean the guy who is targeting family members of the people who find the bodies?’

  Damn that Ms Rosenberg for her publicising of the killer’s selection method.

  ‘Yes.’ I seize the moment and use his fear to my advantage. I don’t like doing such things but sometimes it’s better to save lives than feelings. ‘You need to tell your wife and daughter and then get every member of your family who lives in or near Casperton to report to the police station as soon as humanly possible.’

  ‘I’ll tell them and then we’ll go and start getting the family together.’

  ‘No. You need to stay here where I can protect you. Call your family. Anyone who doesn’t answer will be rounded up by the police.’

  Fear overtakes his features. The hand lifted to cover his mouth shakes as his body reacts to the news of the peril he and his loved ones are in.

  ‘Olly!’ My raised voice causes his focus to snap back onto me. ‘You need to be strong. Your wife and daughter are relying on you right now. I know it’s tough, but you have to go over there, break the news to them and then start calling the rest of your family. I’ll be within twenty paces at all times and promise to protect you until the police get here.’

  Olly’s back straightens as he pulls himself together and faces up to his responsibilities as a husband and father. ‘Thank you.’

  I just hope my promise isn’t put to the test. Whoever the killer is, he’s got a supply of different weapons and the knowledge of how to use them. All I’ve got is a history of bar fights and a gun locked into the trunk of a car parked a quarter mile away.

  With Olly returning to his wife and daughter, I try the chief again. He answers this time.

  I deliver a brief but potent report.

  When he stops cursing, I ask what I should do. He tells me to look after Harriet and her parents and to make sure nobody goes near the body until he gets here. He’ll get Darla to call Steve’s cell. If there’s no answer he’ll organise a search party for him when he arrives.

  I understand the chief’s torn loyalties. On one hand there’s a police officer who may be lying injured or dead, but on the other, there are members of the public who are definitely at risk.

  Choosing one over the other is a gamble either way, but his sense of duty compels him to protect the public.

  While I agree with his choice, I hope for Steve’s sake that if he’s unhurt he’s got an unimpeachable reason for not preventing the murder of Angus Oberton. Never mind what the chief may say to him, or the fact he could lose his job and the associated pension, if he’s been idiotic enough to fall asleep or become distracted playing on his cell, he’ll have to live with the knowledge a man has died because of his negligence.

  57

  Norm hands money and a false smile to the storekeeper. In the bag on the counter are four cartons of cigarettes, a copy of the Casperton Gazette’s special edition and a bag of apples.

  The cigarettes aren’t for him. He doesn’t yet know who they’re for, but he knows they’ll kill whoever he gives them to. Not the long slow death of a smoker, but the sudden death of someone who has ingested a deadly poison. All he has to do is prepare the cigarettes in the correct way and introduce one or two drops of the resulting mixture into the target’s body.

  The solution will be so potent it can be added to a drink or meal with fatal consequences. If the target is already a smoker, by the time a blood sample is taken, the traces will be so insignificant they’ll fail to alert even the most diligent coroner.

  Driving home, Norm lifts the six-page special edition at every pause in the traffic. Skim reading the articles, he grasps the basic facts, leaving the detailed analysis for later.

  One thing is clear to him by the time he pulls into his drive. Jake Boulder is becoming an increasingly sharp thorn in his side.

  He wonders if there’s a way to deal with Boulder without compromising the pattern. It would be good to take him down, to send a message that no one is untouchable.

  The flip side of this is Boulder won’t be the kind of easy target he’s grown accustomed to. Sure, it’ll be a challenge, but he’s confident of his own abilities.

  Norm enters the house and dumps the apples into the fruit bowl. He selects one, polishes it on his shirt, then pours himself a glass of milk.

  The picture of him and Melanie pinned to the fridge door by a magnet bought from some place or other draws its usual smile from him. They’d just gotten engaged when the picture was taken. Melanie’s face radiates utter joy as she cuddles against him, left hand raised to show her new ring to the camera.

  He remembers the night well. Sitting in the restaurant with the ring in his pocket he’d been more nervous than the first time he’d faced combat. After their desserts were cleared he’d gone down on one knee to ask a question which would change their relationship forever. His mouth had been an arid wasteland in which his tongue had stumbled from one mispronounced word to the next.

  When she’d said yes, his entire being changed. Gone were the dry mouth and the uncontrollable tongue. Nerves were chased away by a new-found confidence.

  He’d felt ten feet tall and invincible, his natural shyness dissipated by the feelings of euphoria. When the news spread throughout the restaurant and a round of applause started he’d lapped it up.

  One of the waiters had produced a camera and taken the photo which had adorned their fridge ever since.

  Pushing aside thoughts of what Melanie would think of him, Norm crosses to his computer to start researching the next target.

  With the police aware of his pattern, things have become harder. Yet the extra challenges make it more interesting. If he can continue raising the tally his reputation will be enhanced. With luck he’d join the greats.

  To those who follow, he’ll be a deity. FBI students will be taught about him and his methods. Psychologists will analyse his psyche from afar and make spurious pronouncements on his motivations.

  He may even be included in true crime books or one of the many books about serial killers. Perhaps one day someone will write a book solely about him or commission a TV documentary.

  Maybe they’ll even turn his story into a movie. Sure, Boulder, the chief or some FBI guy will end up as the hero, but his story will still become famous.

  Norm is aware of just how captivating a villain can be in the hands of the right actor. British actors like Alan Rickman and Anthony Hopkins have more than proven that particular theory.

  He ignores the sudden urge for some fava beans and refocuses his mind onto the research he needs to do.

  It takes him ten minutes to get a name for the finder. Next h
e identifies family members who live in the area. Of the twelve names he jots onto the pad at his left, three are under the age of eighteen and therefore discounted as not being viable targets.

  That leaves nine. The parents, both sets of grandparents, two aunts and a cousin.

  He fancies going for the cousin or an aunt but now the pattern is public knowledge it’ll be good to have one of the parents next.

  With his research done until the surveillance can begin, he moves to a more comfortable chair and sits down with another apple and the special edition.

  Reading between the lines of conjecture and speculation he finds there is little he doesn’t already know, other than just how involved Jake Boulder has become.

  The beginnings of an idea start to form in his mind as he absorbs the articles. Each is written with a sense of detachment apart from a strong opinion piece by Ms Rosenberg.

  Never one to hide her views, she takes multiple potshots at Casperton PD, the chief in particular, and the whole law enforcement system within the state of Utah. Only Boulder seems to avoid her scathing rhetoric, although his presence is used as another stick to beat the police with.

  Even though he’s the cause of the fear-inspiring piece, he thinks she’s being harsh.

  A government trained killer, selecting what appear to be random targets, then killing them in a variety of ways, is something no police department is equipped to deal with.

  Norm knows he’s gotten away with the first twenty-five killings. They’d all been passed off as accidents or suicides just like he’d planned.

  The Niemeyer bitch had been the breakthrough for him. Number twenty-six was the one he’d selected as the first to be an obvious murder. To escalate the game and invite an investigation. To provide an opponent.

  It had succeeded twofold. Chief Watson and Jake Boulder now stood against him.

  Soon it will be time to find out who is the worthiest.

  58

  The station is awash with agitated people when I return. A pair of patrolmen are trying without success to manage the crowd.