by Ty Patterson
Zeb searched his mirror but didn’t spot Bwana or Roger.
They’re around. They’ll watch our backs. Forever, if necessary.
The Rouse’s lived in a red bricked town house with white pillars at the entrance with a small but neatly maintained front garden. A wrought iron fence separated yard from sidewalk and when Beth opened it, a bell inside chimed.
The neighboring house displayed a dentist’s board, Philip Rouse’s office. A trickle of people flowed through its doors.
‘I bet it’s not just vanilla dentistry on offer but also the fancy cosmetic stuff,’ Beth murmured.
A neatly dressed woman opened the door, looked at them and zeroed in on Meghan. ‘Beth Petersen?’
‘That’s my twin, ma’am. I’m Meghan. This’s Zeb.’
Linda Rouse introduced herself and led them inside to an airy room and pointed to a couple of couches.
She settled herself with a sigh and discreetly rubbed her ankles. She smiled when she caught Zeb’s gaze.
‘That’s the price you pay for hanging around with people who talk a lot.’
Zeb nodded, kept silent and a snigger burst from Beth.
She explained when an eyebrow arched. ‘That’s something we don’t have to put up with, ma’am. Conversation is alien to him.’
Linda Rouse was in her late fifties, green eyed with neatly partly brown hair. Her dark stockings whispered as she crossed her legs and leaned back.
‘You said this was about Matt?’
‘Your husband is around, ma’am?’ Zeb enquired before the sisters could reply.
‘He’ll be here in a few minutes. He was seeing his last patients.’
Something came into her eyes, her shoulders straightened fractionally. ‘It’s not good is it?’
Philip Rouse came in before Zeb could answer and another round of introductions ensued. Balding, bespectacled, round faced, Philip Rouse radiated trust, and good humor. His easy smile disappeared when his wife turned to him.
‘They’re here about Matt.’
‘We’re no longer in touch with him. We lost all contact.’ Philip’s voice was flat, emotionless; his eyes narrow specks of light behind his glasses.
His wife held his hand. ‘Let them speak.’
Beth looked at Zeb uncertainly. Where do I start?
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘You know he was in a crash? Badly burned?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That was the last time we saw him. Ten years back in the hospital. We had broken off relations with him. We didn’t resume them.’
‘Why was that, sir?’
‘What’s this about?’ Philip demanded. ‘How about you go first?’
Zeb studied them as they sat tense and waiting, their hands clasped in each other’s.
Philip read Zeb’s hesitation and his tone moderated. ‘Son, we have seen a lot of life. We are also old enough to deal with any curveballs thrown at us. Why don’t you cut to the chase?’
You have never caught a curveball like this one.
Distance them from him. Use his name.
‘Matt Rouse could be a killer.’
Their faces were blank and uncomprehending for a moment and when the words registered, Linda Rouse sagged back, a hand covering her mouth. Philip Rouse looked like he had been punched in the stomach.
A faint ticking, the clock, was the only sound for long moments as the couple, looking their age for the first time, tried to recover.
Beth rose and went to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of water.
The older woman took hers with shaking hands and emptied it. Her husband didn’t touch his. His hand had a faint tremor as he removed his glasses and polished them.
‘We always feared something like this could happen. We kept dreading that someone like you would come to us one day. When he left, for years, nothing happened, no one showed up, we felt better. We almost forgot about him. Almost, but not quite.’
His jaw firmed when the spectacles went back on his face.
‘I guess you want to know everything about him?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The couple didn’t ask anything more about their investigation, a defense mechanism that Zeb had come across frequently in parents, relatives, and friends. They tried to draw comfort in not knowing for as long as possible.
‘He was our only child,’ a grim smile came and went, ‘as you well know. We tried for more but for whatever reason, the Lord didn’t bless us.’
‘We knew he was different from when he was about seven years old. He didn’t play with other children, didn’t make any friends. The few kids he hung around with, he got into fights.’
Linda Rouse drew a deep breath and joined her husband. ‘When he was ten, something happened to him. His behavior became even more... different. We used to have pets, a cat, a rabbit, and a dog. They started disappearing. We first thought they were run over, or they had just drifted away.’
‘Then Philip found the mounds of earth in the garden. He dug them up and...’
Her voice trailed away. She blinked rapidly and looked away.
Philip gripped her hand hard, his knuckles turning white. ‘We didn’t let on we had found the graves. We took him for counseling, to a great number of specialists. All of them said he had early psychopathic tendencies.’
He laughed bitterly. ‘We did what any other parents do. We went into denial. Our baby boy couldn’t be like that.’
Dusk became dark, street lamps glowed outside, but the Rouses kept talking. It was as if a dam had burst in them, a need to unburden.
They spoke about their son’s stealing, petty items at first, then more valuable ones, jewelry, stones. They settled it with other parents when he was caught. His increasingly solitary habits as friends dropped away.
Setting up a trust fund for him, buying an apartment for him, and sending him to private college.
‘We are wealthy. He was our only son. Who would we spend it on?’ Philip shrugged when he read the look in Zeb’s eyes.
‘We thought he would come to some good in college. After all he hadn’t harmed another person till then.’ Linda Rouse dabbed her eyes.
If anything, the behavior was worse when in college. He came close to being expelled, but generous donations staved that off. The college was used to rich kid behavior and money always talked.
‘The funny thing is, when he wanted to, he could be extremely charming. He could light up a party. He had the looks, girls hung out with him – those who didn’t know him. He was smart. Once he put his mind to something, he excelled at it.’
Matt Rouse worked at a law firm after college, as a gopher. He was there for a year and then the accident happened.
‘By then he was living separately and we had all but severed ties with him. We didn’t know his friends, who he hung out with. We never visited his apartment.’
She talked about the accident, the horrific burns on his body and hands.
‘His face was scarred, but not as badly as his hands or his chest. Those needed reconstructive surgery. His left leg was crushed beneath his seat. The doctors told us he would have a permanent limp, scars on his hands. They recommended plastic surgery for his face.’
She went into a bedroom, returned with an album and showed them his photographs, before the accident and while in the hospital. Meghan looked at one, when he was just out of college. She saw a handsome man, with thick black hair, a ready smile, and laughing eyes.
The man on the hospital bed had lifeless eyes, red burn marks on his face.
‘He said he didn’t want to go under the knife.’
‘He also said he didn’t want to meet us anymore. That wasn’t as much of a shock to us since we had drifted apart. He wasn’t someone we identified with. A psychopath wasn’t who we wanted for our son.’
Her voice became defensive, ‘I am sure we sound like horrible parents – ‘
‘Ma’am, no explanations are necessary.’
&nb
sp; She searched his eyes and seemed to be satisfied with what she found there.
‘Do you know what he does now, ma’am? Where he lives?’ Meghan brought them back to the present.
‘No, I’m sorry. We haven’t seen or heard from him since we saw him at the hospital.’
‘No emails?’
‘No. He never sent us an email. And before you ask, he wasn’t into Facebook or any stuff like that. I can give you his last address, the apartment we bought for him.’ She recited a midtown Manhattan apartment address and when Meghan had finished writing it down, her hands twisted nervously.
‘You said he might have become a killer. Who has he killed?’
‘Ma’am, all we have now is just a few things that point in his direction. He could be perfectly innocent for all we know.’
Her voice grew stubborn. ‘The three of you wouldn’t have come here if you just wanted to rule him out. There’re more to this.’
‘There isn’t.’ Zeb assured her. ‘The three of us came down since we have run out of leads.’
Steel shone in Philip Rouse’s eyes for the first time. ‘Young man, if my son turns out to be who you suspect, then it’s our name that’s going to be ruined. Her reputation and mine will tank. We deserve to know.’
A long uncomfortable pause followed and it was Zeb who lost the clash of stares.
‘He could be the Flayer.’
The same lack of incomprehension followed and then Linda Rouse bolted from the room. Distant sounds of retching could be heard.
They spent another forty-five minutes in with the Rouses, minutes that felt like hours. Linda Rouse returned but didn’t contribute anymore. She sat white faced, staring blankly at a wall. Zeb followed her gaze once and saw a photograph of the three of them, in happier days.
It was when they were nearing their office block that Zeb received the call from the unknown number.
He would have normally let it go to voice mail, but –
Anything to break the twins’ silence.
It was Philip Rouse.
‘I wanted to apologize. We saw the guilt in your eyes when you left, especially in the two young women. You folks were just doing your job. You didn’t need to be saddled with our emotional baggage.’
Something clinked and Zeb imagined him placing his glasses down and rubbing his eyes.
His voice turned soft, so soft that Zeb swerved to the side and parked to eliminate the hum of tires.
‘We think he’s capable of that. He’s our son and it shames us to acknowledge this, but he could do all of that.
‘We’ll help you in any way we can, if it turns out to be him. Please find him.’
Zeb stared at the console for seconds before he realized Rouse had hung up. He looked at Meghan by his side and Beth, behind. Both of them had wet cheeks.
We should be the ones apologizing for shattering their lives. I should be the one saying don’t feel guilty.
He turned the ignition on in silent fury and three hundred horses sprang forward.
When I find the Flayer, I’ll -.
When.
No longer if.
Chapter 23
January 15th-21st
The Ghul decided not to accelerate the killings. A lot of planning had gone into them, apartments were secured, weapons procured, and most importantly, the mind-sets of his five man kill team were geared to the two days.
He didn’t want to change anything that could impact those mind-sets. Changes caused ripples. Ripples reached unknown shores.
He was happy with their progress.
He picked each man from his apartment, blindfolded, and restrained them and drove them all to Harriman State Park where they practiced their shooting. They spent most of the day there, prayed together, ate and when dark fell, he brought them back.
He was proud that they had followed his orders and had not shared apartment details with the other team. He had bugged their throwaway phones and the apartments and knew of what they talked.
The men had no internet connections, didn’t go out in the evening. It was out with The Ghul in the morning, back at bed in the evening.
Trained killers lived a monastic life.
These weren’t professional killers but were at the least living a similar disciplined life.
Zeb was in Clementon, in a four-bedroom house with two bathrooms.
The Clementon Shooters, as they were now called by the media, had lived there. Clementon PD and the State Police had turned it inside out and hadn’t found anything more on the men. They were now investigating the mosque the men went to, pursuing a theory that the men were radicalized there.
Zeb wandered through the empty apartment, saw the largest bedroom which, presumably was shared by two men; the others had their own.
Or maybe one of them slept in the living room.
The men had been renting the apartment for a year and had kept to themselves. Neighbors had expressed the usual surprise.
Didn’t ever think they were terrorists.
Werner had looked through their lives and had found no connection. No other intelligence agency found any other connection. Yet something inside Zeb couldn’t let go.
Werner had disappointed him. It said the sixth man in the photograph was no criminal, in fact didn’t exist in any database.
Werner had scornfully spat out the identities of the five other men in the image as if the task was not challenging enough.
The five men used to work in a cabling company in Newark in New Jersey. The company was owned by one Masood Deeb, and the four others, Ayoob Awad, Nasib Botros, Samir Hadad and Majid Malouf were his employees.
It was the last man, Majid Malouf, who had sent the image to his now dead Clementon friend. That connection had been made in a fraction of a second by Werner as it looked at the circles of separation.
Masood’s company didn’t exist anymore.
It had wound down now and the men were somewhere in Southeast Asia, going by their Facebook messages. Meghan had made discreet calls and had confirmed Werner’s findings. Beth was chasing down contacts of the traveling men. Family, friends, anyone. So far she hadn’t found anything suspicious.
Dead man was friendly with one of those six men. That’s how he got the photograph. But who’s the sixth man?
Zeb didn’t get any answers in Clementon and headed back to the city. He liked driving. There was something about blacktop disappearing beneath his wheels, about the faint hum of the outside world as it swished past.
Driving was thinking time.
Thinking got him no closer to answers.
Through Holland Tunnel and into the sound explosion that was his city. He heard a faint snatch of conversation on his radio and turned it up. Something about snow. Flights delayed at JFK.
He lowered the volume again.
Nothing unusual about snow in January. But he wouldn’t want to be stuck at an airport terminal waiting indefinitely.
Airport.
Should pay Clare a visit.
Has she found anything more on the Butcher? He’s struck again.
He swerved, jammed his brakes and stayed motionless.
A cacophony sounded behind him and around him. Windows lowered and choice curses were hurled at him.
He stared straight ahead at particles of smoke that danced in front of his windshield, mocking him.
Let it come.
When the thought emerged from the noise in his mind, he wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him earlier.
He punched numbers, paused, and glanced at the clock.
Six p.m.
Meghan will still be there.
Beth might have gone with Mark.
Meghan picked up. ‘Hello there, slave driver. How can I brighten your evening?’
‘Run that image past the TSA database.’
‘Your wish is my command, master.’
Funny.
The Transportation Security Administration manned all U.S. airports and was tasked with making travel se
cure.
Werner checked only criminal databases the first time round.
Werner didn’t take long.
Meghan’s shining eyes confirmed they were onto something.
‘Trevor Johnson, a British businessman traveled to New York on a British Airways flight from London, early November.’
‘What does he do?’
‘His firm supplies electrical equipment all over the world. Cables, tools, generators, all kinds of stuff. They have a plant in China where they manufacture.’
A natural reason for Johnson and Masood to meet.
Yeah? What about that café video?
Curiosity. He just happened to be watching a gruesome killing. Millions of people watch. They aren’t all terrorists.
‘Can you dig up everything on Johnson?’
‘Already onto it.’ She replied smugly and thrust a bio of Johnson that she had extracted from his Facebook and other internet profiles.
Born to wealthy parents in the Great Britain, father a stock broker, mom a homemaker, a couple of sisters, private school educated, and an Oxford graduate. Worked in dad’s firm for a few years and then set up his own business. A trader initially and then bought out the electrical equipment business.
Another thought struck Zeb.
‘How often has he traveled to the U.S.?’
Werner thought about it for less than a second and flashed back a reply.
Just this once.
‘Any other countries?’
Werner didn’t have the answer to that.
Meghan thrust Johnson’s details, all that Werner could dig up, at Zeb when he reached the office. He nodded thanks at her, skimmed them quickly and went to the bubble; it was time to call a few friends in the United Kingdom.
His contact in MI5 said Johnson had never crossed their radar, but he would dig and get back.
They checked out Matt Rouse’s Manhattan apartment the next day. It was temporarily vacant; neighbors said it was let by an agent to companies. They didn’t know who owned it.
They dug deeper, called the agent and found that Rouse had sold the apartment.
‘He cashed out, man, just before the market tanked,’ the agent remembered Rouse. ‘I handled the sale myself. Sold it to a guy who owns a trucking company. Saw Rouse a few times. Not like I knew him well.’
