The Tempest

by A. J. Scudiere

  So he had stood in front of the body with the sais he had picked up to match the holes after the last corpse the ninja had left, and this time he mocked poking at it while it still hung on the wall. The cops in the last town had moved the body before he got to play, changing every piece of evidence from certain to possible, and pissing him off no end. He’d been no good to Charlotte and Annika for a full week after that one.

  Owen then inserted long metal wires into the many punctures the body bore and he saw something very interesting. Every single one was sticking out a good six inches below his comfort zone in his own natural grip. Blinking, he pulled out a wire and stuck in a sai. Then he replaced the wire and did the same at each hole. Even the angle of the stabs down into the shoulder matched. Owen had smiled.

  He smiled again now as he and Blankenship stared down at the body on the slab, still with the long wires sticking out of it as well as the ninja’s metal knives. They were overly utilitarian, looking like they’d been cut with a welder from a sheet of thick metal. “Our ninja’s about five foot six. Not too tall.”

  Blankenship snorted. “Of course. Ninjas are little Japanese guys.”

  There was no comment. Owen had never been sure how Ron Blankenship had gotten into the FBI in the first place. Just as he had never been sure if being the man’s senior partner was a blessing or a curse.

  Just then, one of the lab guys burst in. Special Agent Nguyen was clothed head to toe in white paper-drape clothing that was catching the sick burning of the fluorescent rays and bouncing them off in all directions. His lips were pressed together as he confronted Dunham. “I got this niggling last time about the hairs we got from the ninja.”

  “And?”

  “I pulled the old samples. They all match.” He was clearly upset.

  Owen failed to see the issue with that. The hair was about the only evidence they had on the guy. There were no clothing fibers, no fingerprints that could be trailed from scene to scene, and no blood. It seemed no one ever got a wounding hit on the little bastard.

  “They match too well.”

  “Is that even possible?” What the hell was too well?

  But he was about to find out.

  “This hair,” Nguyen held a strand up, shaking it, “is old. It is, in fact, the same age as all the other hair we found. The only thing I’ll bet on now is that this hair did not come off the head of our ninja.”

  “What?” They had tested it extensively. It was at every scene. But Owen knew. It had been too easy.

  Nguyen shook his head. “The scene was salted.”

  Lee was happy‒fate had paid him back for that missed kill. But like all things fate had thrown his way, there was some shit in this one, too. He was going to have to move out.

  He’d been staying in a shack in the mountains just north of Atlanta, but that was over now. He’d gotten too close to the city, not that it was really ‘city’ out this far from the heart, but there were people. And apparently he wasn’t suited to be around people anymore. It had been an experiment, and now he was packing the few bags he had.

  Tugging his ball cap lower on his face, he lamented that he’d only gotten half his morning jog in today, but figured the adrenaline pumping through his system more than made up for the missed exercise. How many people ever stumbled upon a car accident? Or a robbery in progress? It just didn’t happen. But his feet had pounded through the trees on the old trail and so had someone else’s‒small delicate feet, popping past on bouncy white sneakers. The blonde ponytail reminded him of Samantha. But Sam would never have been stupid enough to be out in the woods oblivious to all but the music piping into her ears. Lee bet this woman wouldn’t be that stupid again either.

  The man had been wearing jeans and a snarl beneath a heavy beard. Out of nowhere, he chased down the woman while Lee was still too busy staying out of sight to be close enough to do anything. The bastard was almost on top of her before she realized what was happening, and he had her down before Lee was in range.

  She’d suffered a few hooks to the face to quell her urge to fight back, and Lee saw then that she was nothing like Samantha, except for being battered. The 9mm Heckler & Koch had come from under his running shirt in a smooth motion. Before his arm had stopped moving he had fired a shot into a tree just over the patch of sunlight-dappled ground where the two were tangled. Both of them had stilled instantly, faces turning to him.

  Shit. He turned his head before either could get a good look and motioned with the nose of the gun while he talked. “Lady, roll over and put your face in the dirt.”

  She shook, but did what he said, even lacing her hands behind her neck like a tornado was coming or she was a police hostage. Grateful for the ball cap serving its purpose, Lee made sure he couldn’t see the man’s face, and knew from hours at the mirror that the attacker couldn’t see his either. The idiot still lunged at him, gun and all.

  Lee pointed and took out a kneecap. Out of the side of his eyes he watched the woman jump like popcorn but stay face down. The man screamed and hit the ground on his back.

  Fuck. If there was anyone within three miles of this they’d come running at these high-pitched wails that put the woman’s own I’ve-been-attacked yells to shame. Knowing he only had a minute to get the job done, the fact that the man was writhing around holding his knee only made his goal harder.

  Lee grinned. Nothing like a challenge. And after a few thwarted attempts he shot the man’s balls off with a slick curve gracing his lips.

  The bastard had stood as best he could and run at a broken hobble into the woods.

  “Ma’am, you’re safe now. Best get home.”

  Lee ran off to his own home, the stupid smile plastered on his face even as he packed up all the incriminating evidence. He had a duffle for rifles, another for guns and ammo and all his spare clips. A smaller one held a thin set of sheets and his clothes, and a fourth had the clothes he wore when he was hunting. All the bags were green camouflage, bought at separate army supply stores, and he had on one occasion had to throw the duffle out into the trees and pray no one found it. The camo had done its job and the clothes had been where he’d tossed them when he came back three days later.

  Lee rifled through the cabinets, packed what he could carry, and tossed all the perishable food as far from the shack as he could. Bears and raccoons would destroy that evidence in a matter of hours. Leaving the cans for whomever might find them, he tipped furniture, broke one chair, threw one out into the woods and bowled over the table. He left one cabinet door open and the water pump dripping, not able to completely ruin the cabin for the next person, before lacing the straps of the heaviest duffels across his chest. The other two he carried in his left hand, leaving the right free, just in case.

  The half-mile hike to the car wasn’t usually made with this much load, but in the past three years he’d bulked up to take it. This didn’t wind him though he kept a pace many would be hard pressed to keep up with, even if they were unencumbered. He was at the car in just under six minutes. Although anyone who didn’t physically stumble directly onto the object likely wouldn’t have known the car was there.

  The dull brown color and subsequent rust spots were their own camouflage. When you factored in the tree and branch ‘garage’ he had built for it, the vehicle became very hard to find. Now he dismantled all his handiwork, scattering the pieces in all directions, and loaded the bags into the backseat. He turned the key and listened to the low hum of a job well done before pulling back a few lengths and getting out. There were tire ruts and a small oil leak, and the slightly worn tracks up to the spot. A shovel from the trunk made short work of the oil-soaked patch of ground, and churned the tire tracks, as well as a few other random pieces of earth, just for effect. Lee tossed the last branches onto the ground, satisfied.

  He’d broken a sweat this time. But unless someone stood in the middle of it and knew exactly what they were looking for, they wouldn’t find his spot. Twenty minutes after he arrived, Lee started the engin
e for the second time. Pausing only long enough to slap peanut butter onto wheat bread and pass a thought for Bethany, he waited until the winding two lane road was empty before pulling up onto it, careful to go slowly and not leave tire tracks.

  This time he knew where he was going . . . deeper into the Appalachians. He’d go back to where he’d first gone to ground, when only those with crime connections were after him. There was less population and more cover there than anywhere else in America. He’d last longer there, and so that’s where he headed.

  He linked into I-75 heading north along with the slew of cars who had no idea he was in their midst. The ratty car was camouflaged on the road, too. Utterly unremarkable, no one looked twice at it, or at the man in the t-shirt and plain ball cap.

  Five hours, some beef jerky, dried fruit, and a forgettable Big Mac later, he turned off 75. Smaller roads led him deep into the woods, the asphalt becoming broken under the wheels of his car. Poor pavement gave way to gravel and finally no surface at all.

  It was only mid afternoon and he was in the middle of nowhere. But he knew exactly where he was. Not wanting to leave the car exposed, he cut branches that would be usable later, and draped them across the sagging roof. It was only partially obscured, but he didn’t want to have to do a full break-down if he had to exit quickly. He didn’t want to waste the work if someone was here, claiming their twenty acres and no mule.

  He pulled the black gun from the side holster, not having noticed it for the whole trip. The metal and plastic were warm from his body heat and he’d carried it so much that it felt like an extension of him‒as though he could feel his fingers on the butt from inside the pistol. From the space between the seat and the emergency brake he pulled a silencer and fit it to the muzzle. He then opened his bag and pulled a second Heckler, fitting it with an illegal sixteen round clip, before grabbing a third clip and sliding it between his belt and the waistband on his pants.

  Lee felt better with all the heat on him. Just in case.

  He pushed aside memories of days where ‘just in case’ hadn’t been anything he worried about, and walked slowly to the cabin he had abandoned nine months ago. It looked empty enough from a distance. It had been here so long that the trees had grown right up to it and over the top, obscuring it from the air and most every side. He sat at the periphery, watching, until the sun went down.

  He fetched himself a handful of pretzels when he went back to cover the car more thoroughly. He made another sandwich, this time with honey, and grabbed a small tin can of peaches and a plastic spoon. His cargo pants were full as he made the almost two mile trek to the cabin again. He sat the whole night outside, in various positions around the perimeter, and entered only just before dawn.

  Someone had been here.

  But from the dust, which he knew from his own experience was hard to replicate, it looked like the visitor had left at least a few months ago. He went through the house, beating anything that would take it‒old curtains, the mattress, a sofa that had been much newer and less plague infested the first time he’d arrived. A few mice and spiders scattered at his ministrations, and he locked himself into the back room and slept.

  He waited three full days before he emerged and set up shop.

  “Whatcha got Dunham? Blankenship?”

  Owen wanted to snort, Blankenship didn’t have anything. He was like a pinkie toe: people told you it was there for balance, but did you believe them? Unfortunately, the whimsical thought about Blankenship was as far as his humor went. He liked Bean, his agent in charge, which was a good thing for him. Most days.

  “We got crap. And we found out that half of what we thought we had was actually crap, too.”

  “Uhhh.” Bean had a way of looking as wounded as you felt. He also looked like the kind of man you expected to pour himself a shot of whiskey or Pepto at any moment. The rounding gut and balding head made you wonder what he’d done to get promoted. But unlike Blankenship, Bean was good where he was. “Better tell me about it.”

  “The grudge ninja’s short.” Blankenship offered.

  Bean smiled like one would at a retarded child, and turned his attention back to Owen.

  “It’s true. Cops left the body tacked to the wall this time-”

  “Tacked to the wall?”

  Owen fought the smile. “It was brilliant, sir.” He explained how the knives looked to be thrown to the appropriate points then the victim held in place while they were pounded through. “Into the wall studs, sir. So the body would stay up.”

  “While the vic was alive?” Bean’s eyes were wide.

  “Yeah. And given the puncture wounds, and the height discrepancy, the vic had maybe fifty pounds on the perp.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Bean was the only person Owen knew who enunciated every word when he swore. “And?”

  “Same as last. Punctures, likely with sais, and slices with kamas.” He slid photos across the desk. Bean had other agents to follow and hadn’t yet seen the grudge ninja’s art this time.

  Blankenship put in his two cents. “Looks like the perp took a bat to the vic’s nut sack again.”

  Only Blankenship didn’t wince.

  Bean tapped a finger on the photo of the victim still on the wall at the crime scene. “The articles?”

  “All legit. Even the police reports, from several different precincts around the country. The grudge ninja’s good.”

  “He’s also a god damned serial killer.” Bean perused the photos again. “Evidence?”

  “That’s where it gets shoddy sir.” Owen explained Nguyen’s mad rampage, and how the hairs they had found didn’t have consistent curling. When looked at all together, from the four scenes they’d pulled, the hair had all fallen off the head at the same time.

  Bean rubbed his eyes, again looking like Owen felt. “So they weren’t shed at the scene.”

  “No sir. The bends and kinks in the hair make it look pretty damn likely that the hair was wound into a brush at one time.” His breath escaped him. “It’s pretty smart, sir. It got the roots, and Nguyen swears he can tell when it’s been yanked. The grudge ninja fooled him up ‘til this one. The only thing we are certain now is that the hair doesn’t belong to the ninja. He used it to salt the scene.”

  “Fibers?”

  Owen and Blankenship both shook their heads.

  “Blood?”

  “Just the victim’s.”

  “Anything?” Bean’s voice was softer.

  “Footprints.” Blankenship grinned.

  But Owen quelled that when Bean looked to him again. “The same shoes. Men’s Skechers, size 10, we know the three designs that use that tread. I’m guessing he only wears them at the scene, because these look identical‒identical‒to the last scene. There’s not even any wear on the treads, which would be expected given the length of time since he last struck.”

  “What else?”

  “Jack shit.”

  Bean nodded and scooted the photos across his desk as though they offended his sensibilities. Still on his feet, Owen just reached out and gathered them.

  Bean’s hands went down his face, and that meant a truly terrible thought had just passed beneath them, “So we’ve got a brilliant, ballsy, serial killer on our hands. Crap, this is another Dahmer.”

  “No sir.” Owen had to step up at that. “I’m getting the stats on the victim, and my money says he was as dirty as the last one.”

  “Doesn’t matter. When this goes national news–and sooner or later it will–we are all in deep shit.”

  It was four months before Lee saw her again.

  The Appalachian cabin was serving him well. There was no one within shooting distance. That meant no visitors, which was a good thing. It also meant no roads and no services, which was a good thing, too, if you just looked at it the right way. Lee did.

  He’d taken down a crack house he read about at the edge of Nashville. He’d driven the clunker/kitty out to the place and camped out in motels that had way too many roach reside
nts that weren’t paying for the room. But no maid service meant no one found the rifles or scopes, or the lead weight of ammo and guns. It also meant no driver’s license was required for entry. Lee hadn’t had his for about three years. The last thing he wanted was to be identified.

  He staked out the house, and watched and waited. Then, when the place was as full as it could be, and the head guy had pulled up in a car that shouted ‘I’m in charge and too stupid to keep it to myself,’ Lee put his eye to the scope and started picking people off.

  He didn’t get the women. Didn’t really have the heart for it. But he had no issues taking out Mr. White Pimp Jacket, who had kindly worn that bright shoot-me-here clothing. Lee obliged, and enjoyed the red stain that ruined the material as well as the wearer. The others looked up, and a few got away, but a handful lay dead, holes in the sides of their heads. One lucky guy took one right between the eyes. His intelligence at finding Lee’s location had only earned him the best looking death wound.

  When the outside was silent, Lee left the rifle and pulled out the Hecklers. He went in firing. There were screams and blood, and none of it his. He was badder ass than any of these two-bit crime lords. Some were too high to get their guns lifted before he took them out. Most of the sober people had been outside and stupid.

  He fired three rounds into a woman who came around a corner with a rifle trained on him and a scream like a banshee. But the scream warned him she was coming, which was the first bad move on her part. The second was being too uptight or scared, and missing him with the one shot she got off.

  He did not hit the woman who cowered in the corner. Nor the man who put his hands up in the air at the first shot, the Magnum still clutched in his right hand. Lee had never considered himself stupid, and he made the guy kick the gun over before he turned his back. The second guy he did that to sat down too docilely and thus, a second after Lee had turned away, he took a quick second look and put a shot dead center in the man’s chest. It was a good shot since the dead hands were holding a 9mm almost directly in front of the target. It was aimed at Lee, but like most things it didn’t get to him.