by Casey Doran
Rain glistened on the windows in the living room. It washed out the buildings of downtown and the streets below. November 1 in the Midwest, when the rain is cold and the wind brings promises of another coming winter that people are not quite ready for.
Striding in my sweatpants and bare feet across the cool hardwood floor, I found the remote and clicked on the stereo. The sounds of Joe Satriani’s “Starry Night” boomed through the speakers. It was one of his more simple yet melodic works, perfect to recalibrate to. I started a pot of coffee and then took a long hot shower, trying to scrub away the events of the previous forty-eight hours. My clothes from the night before lay in a pile on the floor, the smell of smoke and burning flesh woven into the fabric. I dropped them down the garbage chute.
By the time I changed into new clothes, the aroma of fresh coffee had filled the loft. I made an omelet on the skillet, tossing pieces of ham and bacon and cheese to the dog. There was a therapy in cooking that reminded you that you were still alive and kicking. I stood at the window drinking coffee, looking at the fog hanging over the river like a blanket. The town was a mix of growth and decay, construction sites for brand-new, state-of-the-art facilities mixed with buildings that were over a hundred years old and showing their age. It made for a schizophrenic skyline.
The music rotated to a song recorded by Katrina’s former band, Midnight. The music was far less hostile than Hell Kat’s and emphasized melody rather than mayhem. Back then, Katrina had played drums while also providing vocals. The song that played, “Daydream,” was a ballad of lost love and heartache and regret. Even though Katrina had written the track years before we met, it seemed to be the soundtrack to our rocky relationship and summed up exactly how I was feeling. I thought about calling her to see if she was okay, even though I knew that she would just insult me and give me grief. It was hard to imagine that the relationship between her and Watts had been anything more than physical, but with Katrina, one just never knew.
The song ended and I was reaching for the phone when her brother came on the TV. The congressman wore a navy blue suit, white shirt, and crimson tie, as conservative as a GOP billboard. As was his custom, Masters began abruptly. He liked to get his audience’s attention early.
“Our home is under siege. Two people have been savagely murdered. More deaths are promised. We know this, because this killer has opened a line of communication with those in law enforcement. He is taunting the brave men and women who serve our community by bragging about what he has already done and what he promises to do in the future.
“It is clear that this monster is modeling himself after the fictional character known as Christian Black. These books are the vital works of a sick human being: Jericho Sands is a killer. Let us never forget that. He grew up in a cult. He killed another human being and was allowed to walk. He has lived here among us, free to do as he pleases. Is it any wonder that we now have a sadistic killer running rampant through our city? As I understand it, Sands was even interrogated immediately following the murder of Eric Watts, but was released.” Masters concluded his statement and opened the floor for questions. They came immediately.
“Congressman, are you suggesting that Jericho Sands is responsible for the emergence of this killer? Or even that he may possibly be the person calling himself the River City Slasher?”
Masters held his hands up, in a hold-off motion, grinning smugly.
“Now, now, Connie. I cannot comment too directly on an ongoing investigation. But if Jericho Sands is in fact behind this, I will see to it that he spends the rest of his life in prison.”
I turned and kicked the first thing I encountered, an end table that was more than a match against my bare foot. As pain rocketed through my toes, a lamp sitting on the table trembled like a high-rise in an earthquake, fell to the floor, and shattered. Doomsday looked on with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment as I hobbled to the couch.
“I suppose you think that was funny?” I asked. Doomsday has watched me act out my frustrations in all sorts of entertaining ways over the years.
My computer dinged, signaling that I had an email. Tanner had sent me a file on Jagger. I sat at the desk with a fresh cup of coffee and read. She was adopted, raised by seemingly loving parents. There was a rebellious youth that she eventually grew out of. After high school, Jagger spent two years at a community college, where she earned a degree and then joined the Kansas City Police.
She rose quickly. A newspaper article was attached to the file. Jagger had been involved in a shooting. She was off-duty and on her way home when she stopped at a gas station to buy gas. And walked right into a robbery. The suspects were locals who recognized Jagger as a cop and opened fire. A leap behind a beer display was the only thing that saved her. The shootout resulted in the deaths of all three suspects, as well as the clerk who had been caught in the crossfire. Jagger was the only one to leave the store alive.
It was messy, but not unheard of. It happened, especially in larger cities like Kansas City. The inquiry made by Internal Affairs was long and drawn-out. Apparently they had some sort of evidence against Jagger and were desperate to act on it. But it never happened. She took a transfer and the matter was dropped.
Tanner was right. Alyssa Jagger was smart, tough, and carried a massive chip on her shoulder. Exactly the kind of woman I tend to gravitate toward. She was most likely looking for a shot at redemption. And some killer was giving her the perfect opportunity.
The River City Slasher, whoever this person was, held the city in the grip of fear. Two murders, with more promised to come. I had found a refuge here, a place to hide from my past and build something of a life. But it was all crashing down. Just like last time, I watched as others fell, helpless to do anything about it.
Doomsday leaped from the sofa and hurried to the door. From a foot away he began barking, loud and threatening. It was not a welcoming bark. It was an If you come any closer, I’m going to eat your face bark.
I opened the door and Doomsday ran down the steps. I lost sight of him at the first landing, but heard him charging toward the garage like a big wild beast with a scent of its prey. My feet carried me as fast as they could without tripping. I called after him, telling him to wait, to hold up until I could catch up, but he was already too far ahead, and my calls echoed uselessly off the walls of the stairwell. I didn’t know who was in more danger: Doomsday, or whoever he found at the bottom of the stairs. It seemed certain that any kind of attack would be over before I got there. But when I reached the garage my dog was standing at the door to the main entrance, alone and growling.
I came up beside him and looked outside. The street was deserted. We missed him. But only just. We climbed the stairs back to my loft. There, I found a note hanging on the door. I had been in such a rush to follow Doomsday that I had missed it. It was printed on a generic page of computer paper. Twenty-point font. Times New Roman. As generic and untraceable as it got.
MURRAY BAKER BRIDGE VIADUCT, MIDNIGHT
COME ALONE
For a writer of cheesy pulp novels like myself, the note was an obvious trap. There is only one reason a person wishes to meet alone in the middle of the night, and that is to kill the recipient. The note may as well have included a postscript that stated, “I’m setting a trap and betting you are stupid enough to walk right into it.” The smart thing to do would be to call the detectives and have them back me up. But the idea of calling either Torrez or Jagger was unacceptable. Torrez would just swear at me and act like I had contrived the entire thing just to piss him off. Jagger would likely stare at me like a load of crap that somehow developed the ability to speak. Both would show up with half the police force, possibly a helicopter, and would manage to do nothing but spook whoever was reaching out and make certain that they did not make another attempt.
So I stuck to the terms. Mostly. Riding on the passenger seat was my shotgun. For the hell of it, I also brought a fire extinguisher. Just in case. I had considered bringing Doomsday, but decided
against it. He would charge too easily into trouble if he believed I was threatened. I didn’t want to put him in that situation and left him chewing on his new softball.
I had no idea what to expect, so I was ready for anything.
Or so I thought.
A form was slumped in the shadows. I killed the headlights and rolled toward it. Twenty yards away, I flipped on the high beams. The man was of indeterminate age with dirty long hair and a beard, a hand raised in front of his face to shield his eyes. I slowly pulled alongside him and rolled down my window.
“You Sands?” His voice was like broken glass being dragged over gravel.
“Yeah.”
“You look like him.”
“That’s because I am him.”
“No, you look like the other guy who was here earlier. The one that was looking for you.”
“Who was looking for me?
The bum looked around. “How much?”
My wallet held two tens. I took them out and held them up for him to see. His hand came out like an expectant bellhop wanting a tip. I left the car and walked over to him. The money exchanged hands and he tucked it in his coat. His eyes rolled up in his head as though deep in thought.
“There was a man here waitin.’ Was leaning against an old Camaro. Cream-colored. Dented fenders. Real piece of crap. Late seventies era, maybe.”
“Okay.”
“Well, he was waiting,’ like I said. Seemed real anxious. Kept looking at his watch.”
“This guy didn’t see you sitting here?”
“He saw me, alright. Just didn’t seem to care that I was here. Folks like me tend to blend into the background. Ya know? Anyway, this guy suddenly got real spooked when a police car drove past. Didn’t like the sight of them one bit. They come by here now and again. They rousted me a few times. Some of them are pretty rough about it.”
“Why don’t you go someplace else?”
“Like where?”
“One of the missions?”
“I’ve done been kicked out of all those. You wanna know what I have to tell you or not?”
I held up my hands up in surrender, signaling for him to go on.
“Well, after the third time the police car drove by, he got in that Camaro. He drove by me, then backed up. He rolled his window down and leaned out. Said you would be by here and to give you a message.”
“What was the message?”
“He said payback is coming. After all these years. Payback was finally coming for you.”
“What did he look like?” I asked, hoping that he could provide a description as good as the car.
“I can tell ya, but he gave me his name if you want it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess. He said his name was the River City Slasher?”
“No, smart guy. He said his name was Eli Sandborn. He said to tell ya that hell has come to town to find you.”
Chapter Ten
Calamity Ranch, Montana. October 1992.
Fall in Montana. Fifty degrees in the afternoon with a chill in the air that called for well-worn denim jeans and flannel coats. The mountains rose high over the plains, reminding of us of how small we were. The lake was still as glass. On the dock, our canoe was put up for the day, oars tucked safely inside like workers punched out for their shift.
Eli held a stringer with over a dozen good-sized trout. A few of them were even mine. Eli was two years younger than me, tall and wiry. Long hair and wild eyes. Good with a rifle as far as you cared to test him. My younger brother, a better hunter, better fisherman, had taken all of my lessons on these things and improved until he left me in the dust.
“I’ll take these to the house,” he said. “Father told me this morning that he wanted to talk to you when we were finished.” Eli always addressed Peter like that. Father. Never Dad or Pops or the Old Man. Father. It was how everyone who lived on our ranch addressed him. Even our mother.
“He in the main house?”
“Nah.” Eli flashed me a grin that was full of mischief, letting me know that he knew something I didn’t, and wouldn’t I love to know what it was. “He’s in your favorite place.”
I groaned, dreading having to go to Peter’s chapel. It was the one place on the ranch I avoided whenever possible.
“Did he happen to say what he wanted?”
Eli shrugged, as if such a concern was beyond him. You did not ask Peter why he gave you a job on our ranch. You just did it and thanked him for trusting you.
“Who knows? Maybe he wants to give you your birthday present.”
“Sure.” I started to walk away when Eli called out.
“You want me to take the .45?” he asked.
We spent the morning shooting cans before pulling out the canoe. Eli was a more accurate shooter and could hit his targets from farther away. So I chose to better him with superior firepower. Growing up in Montana, boys had guns as routinely as bicycles and baseball cards. Mine was a Smith & Wesson revolver given to me on my thirteenth birthday. Eli tried to get his hands on it whenever he could. I hollered back that he would get it when I was dead, and made my way to the chapel.
The doors were ajar, allowing me in, but only if I was really sure. I had never been comfortable inside Peter’s church. The dozen men and women who stayed with us in the guest houses gathered there frequently, singing praises, hanging on Peter’s sermons. My attendance was required on Sunday mornings, encouraged on Monday nights, and forbidden on Wednesdays. Unlike Eli and my three half-brothers and two half-sisters, I harbored no curiosity about what occurred when the services were “invitation only.” I was the oldest and had the most jobs on the ranch. But the distance I kept from Peter’s gatherings was because I always sensed a malice to the masses. Behind the singing and rejoicing, I always detected something sinister. It was vague enough to prevent me from identifying, but clear enough for me to stay away.
I found my father praying at the altar. He knelt with his back to me, head downward, hands steeled. Latin incantations rose high in the rafters and echoed with furor and passion. I knew better than to interrupt. I also knew it could be a while. Peter would often pray for hours. Interruptions were not permitted. It was a lesson that both Eli and I had learned through force. I stood rigid, as silent as the figures in the large stained-glass windows overhead. When Peter was finished, he rose, crossed himself, and turned to face me.
“Jericho. Come.”
I followed him through the backroom into his office. It was one of the forbidden areas, strictly off-limits to me and my siblings. My eyes took their chance to look around, my teenage mind silently reveling in this look behind the curtain. Peter opened a door. He looked at me with his cold blue eyes, eyes like my own, and spoke very deliberately, as though what he was about to say was the most important message I would ever receive.
“I want you to go down the stairs. I want you to stand in the middle of the room and see what is down there. You will want to react. It will be surprising at first. Possibly shocking. But I urge you to stay calm. Stay focused and take in everything you see. It will be critical to your spiritual growth. Can you do that, Jericho? Can you see everything?”
I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Surprising? Shocking? It was more than I could remember Peter ever saying to me at one time that did not involve a sermon on how I was on course to a life of damnation. Now I was supposed to follow his directions into a dark room and try not to be shocked? I nodded and walked down the steps into the basement from which in many ways I never returned.
I didn’t learn her name until later. It was Sheila Kerrigan. She was twenty-nine years old. Born in Boulder, Colorado, to a single mother who died from a drug overdose when Sheila was sixteen. Sheila danced at a topless bar in Denver under the name Summer Rain. I found her naked and strapped to a concrete platform that rose from the floor. Her mouth was gagged. She had been beaten. Purple and gold bruises covered her face and most of her body. No, I thought. More than beaten, she looked like she had been
hit by an eighteen-wheeler.
My breath rushed out of my body. I keeled over as though vicariously feeling every blow, every bruise I saw on her body. Sheila sat up as far as the restraints would allow and turned my way. Bloodshot eyes pleaded with me for release. Muffled screams reached my ears and tore through them like shattered glass. I could not hear the words she tried to form, but I understood them as clearly as I had ever understood anything.
Help me! Please help me!
My legs would not move. The scene before me was too much to process. Thirty minutes ago my biggest concern had been how to catch more fish than my kid brother. I had since gone down the rabbit hole into my father’s macabre double life.
Framing the platform were pictures. They showed the woman before me in several frozen moments. Naked, mid-dance. Straddling men in dirty overalls. Snorting a line of white powder off a table. Some of the pictures were of her holding a young girl: dark hair and freckles, maybe ten years old. Her daughter, clearly.
The stairs creaked, jolting me, but I didn’t turn. Couldn’t turn. As footsteps announced the arrival of my father, my eyes pivoted slowly to a large mirror in the corner of the room. It was positioned so that I could see Peter entering the basement just over my shoulder. I saw him look at me in the mirror, his eyes boring through me, finding places I had not known. He was dressed in a flowing ceremonial gown, white with a red Gothic cross displayed prominently across the chest. He stood at my side, looking like a warrior from the Crusades ready to slaughter the infidels.
“What the fuck is this?” I stammered. It was the first time I swore in Peter’s presence and did not receive a strike across the face.
