“Nothing so personal with this one, though.” His tone easy, conversational. “I just wanted you to know how serious I am. How…what’s the word?…totally committed.”
He seemed to relish my silence. Its shock, dismay.
“Oh, and one last thing. If you tell anyone about this…if you call the police, for instance…many more people will die. Random folks. Maybe the guy selling hot dogs on the corner. The head of the school board. The Mayor. Who the hell knows?”
A meaningful pause. “Are we clear on this point?”
I slowly nodded, assuming he could see me.
He could. “That’s my boy. Let’s just keep our relationship on the down-low. After all, you’re a therapist. You’re good at keeping secrets, right?”
Before I could respond, the image vanished from the screen.
I tossed the cell aside, then gripped the steering wheel with both hands. Hard. Using the pressure to maintain control.
Another murder? Of someone in my life. An innocent, who no doubt died suddenly, and violently, without a clue as to why.
Someone who, in his words, had the misfortune to know me. But did that make me responsible for what he’d done?
Thankfully, the irrationality of that thought struck me a moment after I had it, though the pang of guilt it caused lingered a bit longer. Then, exhaling, I roused myself, grabbed up my cell, and climbed out of the Mustang.
Another shock awaited me at the front door.
I’d just taken out my keys to unlock it when I discovered that it was already unlocked. Closed, but unlocked.
Heart pounding, I slowly opened the door and stepped into the shadowy front room. The heavy drapes were drawn, as I’d left them, blocking the noonday sun. The air was thick, turgid. Walking as carefully as I could, I moved through a swirl of dust motes toward the kitchen.
The light was on inside. And there was the distinct hum of voices. Low, conspiratorial. Two of them.
Eyes burning, still feeling spent in both mind and body, I clenched my fists and approached the open kitchen doorway. Was it him? I wondered. With an accomplice? Lying in wait?
Maybe the smart move was to go back the way I’d come, retreat cautiously across the airless room and out the front door. Call the cops from the safety of my driveway.
Except that my cell phone wasn’t secure. He would hear the call. And after what he’d said about contacting the police…his threat that he’d start indiscriminately taking lives…
I believed him.
Besides, as foolish as it seemed—and as reckless, given my weakened condition—I had to know who was on the other side of that open doorway. Had to.
Steeling myself, I strode into the brightly lit room.
And froze, hands still balled into fists.
As I’d surmised, there were two of them. A man and a woman. Sitting side by side at the kitchen table, their heads were huddled over a laptop, next to which were a couple of half-empty coffee mugs. The carafe bubbled on the tiled countertop behind them.
The man poked his head up, grinned.
“Jesus, Doc, you look like shit. Like one of Elliot’s hollow men.”
I knew him, of course. A former patient. A retired FBI profiler whom I’d treated for his debilitating night terrors.
I knew the woman as well. A current FBI Special Agent with whom I’d worked only a few weeks before.
But what the hell were Lyle Barnes and Gloria Reese doing in my kitchen?
l l l l l
Before I could ask the question, Barnes, wincing slightly, had risen and, using his left hand, got another mug from the cabinet above the sink. It wasn’t till he’d stood up that I realized his right arm was in a sling.
Lyle Barnes had retired from the FBI after twenty long years spent profiling—and interviewing—some of the nation’s most notorious serial killers. He’d spent hundreds of hours inside the heads of the likes of David Berkowitz, BTK, and the Green River Killer. And with the psychic scars to prove it.
In his late sixties, he was tall, thin and wiry, with leathered features and intense world-weary eyes. The FBI had brought Barnes and me together when, soon after retirement, he began suffering from night terrors. He’d wake from a troubled sleep screaming, clawing at his bedsheets, soaked with sweat. Having envisioned formless yet terrifying shapes, accompanied by a powerful sense of dread.
At the same time, Barnes had become a target of a ruthless assassin. However, soon after the killer was brought to justice, the tormented agent finally went into treatment with me, which concluded late last year. By then, he rarely experienced his agonizing symptoms. So off he went into a retirement that combined fly-fishing with his devout, life-long love of poetry.
Anyway, that had been the plan. Yet now, here he was in my kitchen, drinking my coffee, and with his arm in a sling. Though still keeping to his usual off-the-rack sports jacket, buttoned-up shirt, and grey slacks. Once a G-man, always a G-man.
“What happened to your arm, Lyle?” I asked.
Using his good hand, he poured me some coffee and motioned for me to sit. I did, putting my cell beside me on the table.
“I got shot.” Barnes regained his own seat. “Outside my front door. Right before dawn, when I went out to get the paper. Turned out to be just a deep flesh wound, but it bled like a son of a bitch. So I lay still as a corpse, letting it pool under me. From a distance, I would’ve thought I was dead, too.”
“It was a foolish risk.” These were Gloria’s first words since I’d entered the room. She frowned at the older man with a kind of stern affection. In turn, I looked at her.
Dark-eyed and dark-haired, Gloria was what used to be called petite. Pretty and compact, she wore a tight sweater and jeans that revealed her slim curves. I knew from my own experience how smart and tough she was. “Small but mighty,” she’d once said to describe herself. I couldn’t agree more.
“Luckily,” Barnes went on, “before the guy could come any closer to check me out, a truck came down the street. So the shooter decided to take off. I made sure I didn’t move a muscle till he was out of sight. Besides, at my age, playing dead isn’t that much of a stretch.”
I stared at the two of them for a long moment.
“I still don’t know what’s happening,” I said. “And why you’re both here.”
Gloria regarded Barnes. “You left out the most important part, Lyle. Better tell him.”
He grunted. “Right before the guy stuck a gun out his car window and fired, he yelled ‘Regards from Danny Rinaldi.’”
I said nothing for a moment, then slowly nodded.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Barnes said.
“He told me someone I knew had been murdered. Although I had no idea who it was till just this minute. You.”
“Well, it was supposed to be me. I guess I did fool him, though. He thought he’d killed me.”
Barnes grunted. “When I knew for sure he was gone, I wrapped a coat around my arm and drove to this doctor I know. He’s a…Well, let’s just say we have a history. So he wasn’t going to report the gunshot wound. Last thing I needed was the Bureau’s bullshit. Even though I’m retired. All the paperwork, plus follow-ups with a head-shrinker. No offense, Doc.”
“None taken.”
“Anyway, he dug out the bullet, which was as much fun as it sounds. Then he dressed the wound and forced me to wear this goddam sling. The only good thing to come out of it is the pain meds. Man, they’ve come a long way since I was in the field.”
He leaned back. “Naturally, the shooter mentioning your name kinda got my attention. So after I got patched up, I drove here and invited myself in. I knocked first, of course.”
“Of course.” I recalled the last time Lyle Barnes had been in my house. Hiding from the killer tracking him, he’d used his considerable skills to get past the locks. Seemed like he ha
dn’t lost his knack.
“Since you weren’t here,” he said, “I must admit I made myself at home. Even took a look through that dossier on the coffee table. Interesting reading.”
“Jesus, Lyle—”
“No, wait.” Gloria put her hand on my wrist. “Let him finish, Danny.”
“Anyway,” Barnes continued, “I noticed something odd in the case files concerning that mugging years ago, so I got your laptop from the desk and turned it on. To do some research. The moment I booted it up, a video started playing on the screen. Complete with audio. And nothing I did could make it stop.”
I felt the blood leave my face.
“Well, that was something.” Barnes shook his head sadly. “It showed this guy raping a young woman he called Joy Steadman. Then killing her. Then the bastard turns to the camera and delivers his little speech. To you.”
“I know. I saw it.” I paused. “He forced me to watch it.”
As succinctly as possible, I told Barnes and Gloria what had happened the night before. And earlier this morning.
Barnes grimaced. “I figured it was something like that. And don’t be surprised that he can hack your cell or control your laptop remotely. Hell, there’s a reason the top brass at the Bureau—and the CIA—put duct tape over the camera lens on their own computers. They know what can be done nowadays.”
It was then that I noticed my laptop, lid closed, on the far end of the counter. I could tell from the little light blinking next to the brand’s logo that the computer was on.
I also knew without having to check that the horrific video of Joy’s assault was still playing, over and over. And would probably do so endlessly.
“I watched the video a couple times,” Barnes was saying, “and was pretty sure it was the same guy that ambushed me. He’d fired from his car across the street, so I didn’t get a good look at him. But based on his warning to you about another murder, I see now it had to be him.”
I considered this. “Though now I’m wondering how he’ll react when he doesn’t see a story about your murder on the morning news.”
Gloria released her grip on my wrist. “I have a feeling we’re going to find out. And soon.”
“Which reminds me,” I said to her. “I still don’t know why you’re here. How did you learn about all this?
“Because I told her,” Barnes said briskly. “The kill video was on a loop that couldn’t be deleted or shut off, so your laptop was useless. Since Reese here worked that same case you and I were involved in a while back, I called her and asked her to come here. And to bring her laptop.”
He gave her a wry, professional appraisal.
“Unlike most of the young morons working for the Bureau nowadays, Reese is at least mildly competent. The fact she’s damned easy on the eyes doesn’t hurt.”
“Christ, old man.” Gloria frowned. “That’s just wrong on so many levels.”
Ignoring her, Barnes turned back to me. “Besides, even if I could’ve used your computer, I knew I wouldn’t get past the Bureau firewalls this time.”
“You mean, like you did before. I was there, remember?”
He shrugged. “What can I say? They have better security protocols now. So I needed Agent Reese’s laptop, and her security clearance, to access info on the killer.”
“And I was only too happy to help.” Gloria stirred in her seat. “Especially after Lyle showed me that horrendous video. I’ve never wanted to nail a perp so much in my life.”
But my eyes stayed on Barnes.
“You’re talking like you know who he is.”
“Of course, son. Don’t you?”
“No. But how do you know?”
“I told you, I read that dossier of yours. Saw right away that something was wrong. So for the past hour, Gloria and I have been digging up all we can on this guy.”
“And it isn’t pretty,” she added, mouth tightening.
I felt my own mouth go dry as I absorbed their words. Could almost hear my heart thudding in my chest.
“Who is he?” I said at last.
Barnes hesitated, then looked over at Gloria.
Once again, she took hold of my wrist. Though this time her touch was soft, tentative.
“His name is Sebastian Maddox.” Gloria’s normally brash, assertive voice had gentled to a whisper. “Danny, we think he’s the man who killed your wife.”
Chapter Thirteen
Funny how the mind works. At that precise moment, my thoughts inexplicably went to my patients. I’d forgotten all about those who’d be coming for therapy today.
Of course, I knew immediately what had happened. Unable to process at first what Gloria had said, my brain quickly skidded over to something else. Some other concern.
Then, just as quickly, I recalled that the Mayor’s cocktail party was on a Friday. Last night. The night I’d been taken.
Which meant today was Saturday. And that meant there were no patients to see.
I spotted Barnes peering at me.
“You okay, Doc?”
I rubbed my jaw. “Just trying to take it all in.”
“Not to horn in on your territory, Danny,” Gloria said, “but you look pretty shell-shocked. After what you’ve just been through, I’m not surprised.”
“Me, either, Gloria. But I’ll be okay soon enough. What I need now is everything you two know about this Maddox guy.”
Lyle Barnes leaned across the table. “First, what can you tell me about whoever gave you the dossier?”
I told him about the dying man, and his belief that he’d found something in the dossier that proved my wife had been murdered. Something in the case notes about the mugging.
“What was his background, this guy?”
“He worked for years as a consultant for a big private security firm. The kind that provide bodyguards for celebrities and VIPs. And sets up security systems for their clients. Before that, he was in the armed forces. Did a tour in Afghanistan.”
Barnes turned to Gloria. “Classic law enforcement type. Even if he never wore the badge. That’s why the name jumped out at him. And why it jumped out at me when I read the case notes. We’re all crime buffs when it comes to stuff like that.”
She smiled her agreement. “God knows I am.”
I was running out of patience. “C’mon, you guys. What the hell—?”
“Wait here.” Barnes got up and went into the front room, returning in moments with the dossier. He opened it on the table in front of me, then hurriedly flipped through pages until he found what he was looking for. The section of the case files containing the witness statements.
“See this list of names?” He pointed at the names of the parking valets. Hector Ruiz. Ed Hunter. Jack Ketch. Sal Tulio.
“What about it?”
“The name Jack Ketch. This must’ve been what caught the security guy’s eye. He knew right away that something was funny. So he probably did the same thing I did.”
“I don’t understand.”
An indulgent smile. “Jack Ketch is the name of a famous British executioner who worked for King Charles II.”
“I never heard of him.”
“Well, you would’ve if you’d lived in the 1680s. He was notorious at the time for the barbarity of his executions, and for the glee he took in doing them.”
Gloria spoke up. “Your security guy saw the name and instantly realized it was probably a fake. An alias the valet had given to the cops when he was interviewed that night. And given to the valet parking outfit when they hired him, I’ll bet. Unlikely they would’ve recognized the name, either.”
“Which had to make your guy wonder why. Why use a fake name, especially that of an infamous murderer?” Barnes swiveled in his chair and pointed to Gloria’s laptop. “So your late friend did what I myself did just an hour ago. He no doubt had buddies
or former colleagues in law enforcement, and so was able to access police data. And to search VICAP for criminals who use or had once used the name Jack Ketch as an alias.”
“That’s when he found the name Sebastian Maddox?” I asked.
Gloria nodded. “Probably. Just as we did. Sebastian Maddox. AKA Lysander Jones, AKA Parsifal Jones, AKA Jack Ketch. You gotta give the creep kudos for imagination.”
“Real smart-ass, this guy.” Barnes scowled. “Lysander was the name of a Spartan admiral who defeated Athens. Maddox probably thinks of himself as some kind of military genius.”
“And Parsifal,” I added. “A knight who pursued the Holy Grail in the time of Arthur. Explains the tattoo on his chest. That cup with the rays emanating from it. But what’s his connection to the Grail myth?”
“I may have an idea about that,” Barnes said carefully.
He swung the laptop around so that I could see the screen. On it was a digital cascade of photos, case notes, official court documents, and other archived material he’d assembled.
“Let me give you the CliffsNotes version.” Barnes folded his arms. “Sebastian Maddox was an undergraduate at Pitt during the same years your late wife attended—though she was still Barbara Camden at the time.”
“That’s right. We didn’t meet till grad school.”
“Apparently, this Maddox was some kind of prodigy. Double-major in computer science and philosophy. Came from a fairly prominent family in the area, but a real troublemaker since he was a teen. Vandalism, drug use, the usual rebellious crap.
“Anyway, Maddox was in one of the same classes at Pitt that Barbara took. And became infatuated with her. According to a statement Barbara later gave to the police, he seemed to be obsessed. Kept asking her out, calling her, that kind of thing.”
“Then he upped the ante.” Gloria’s eyes darkened. “Began stalking her. Showing up wherever she went. Standing outside her Oakland apartment all night long. Leaving suggestive notes in her mailbox. Scared her out of her wits.”
Barnes picked up the thread. “Finally, she got a judge to put a restraining order on the scumbag. Not that it did much good. Maddox repeatedly violated it, and the cops had no choice but to pick him up. But Maddox lucked out and caught a different judge, some limp-dick who just gave him probation.”
Head Wounds Page 8
