“Bertha,” she said. “It’s Bertha. Timothy. What do you mean the walls are—”
“He cuts me, Bertha,” he gasped. “With the tools. Ankle, throat, ribs, hands. Hurts so much—”
“I’ve been carving on the lad since he woke, my dear,” the kidnapper interrupted. “Just surface cuts. In exactly the right places, of course. He’s not bleeding much.” Serene chuckle. “Not yet.”
Bertha thought of her father, who’d worn a Boston shield for thirty-two years before retiring happily to the golf course. Not one injury all those years, not one wacko whispering death in his ear. “What did Timothy do to make you hate him?” she tried.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” she said, genuinely curious. “Then why are you doing this to him?”
“I needed to know.”
She glared at the lead technician, who shook his head in exasperation, as if to say, “Hell, lady, I don’t know what the hell’s wrong.” She went back to the caller. “Need to know what, John?”
“If I could do it,” he replied. “It’s one thing to dream about executing a cop, Bertha. You can plan and rehearse all you want, and that’s fun. It’s another thing to actually, you know, do it.” He was extremely calm. Robotic. No, that wasn’t it, not exactly. Unsure. As if he needed to talk himself into this.
“Soda,” she croaked, throat parched. “Hurry.” Trout Lips ran for one. Her supervisor was a good guy, but stunningly inept at his job. He survived because he was the mayor’s cousin. That guaranteed him two things—a city paycheck and a catty nickname. His came from his enormously fat lips, which stuck so far out they resembled a trout’s.
The soda can hit her desk. She drank fast, sorting options. John Doe was approaching the center of the high wire, not sure if he should keep going, and risk falling, or walk back to the stability of the platform. Forward, victory, backward, safety. She could play with that. Ask about his life, his dreams, what bothered him so much he’d execute another human being in cold blood. Let him unburden his soul if he had one. In return, she’d tell him about herself, provide her full name. She owed that much to the brave young man on the table.
But John Doe was no longer tentative. “I drove ahead of the trooper, flattened my own tire, and waited for him to come by,” he was crowing. “I brained him, threw him in the trunk, drove here, handcuffed him to the operating table, and I’m carving him like a Christmas goose! I’m going to kill your cop in cold blood, Bertha, and there’s nothing you can do to stop—”
“You bastard!” Bertha screamed, praying that cursing John Doe would work better than cursing the malfunctioning computer. “No-guts, yellow-belly coward! You stop hurting that boy right now, you goddamn lunatic!”
“Phew, honey, you eat with that mouth?” Cheerful, not the least bit offended.
“Sorry, John,” she mumbled, tossing him the apology for delaying the kill. “You frustrate me, that’s all.” Trout Lips slapped the trooper’s personnel record next to her soda, and she scanned it for a counterattack. Timothy was twenty-four years old, several months out of the academy. Like all newly minted troopers, he patrolled the boondocks, where Massachusetts kissed New York. He lived thirty-one miles from his barracks, with wife, son, daughter, three greyhounds, and a pony. Bertha wanted John Doe to know every one of those facts before he finished his terrible obsession. “John, his nickname is Legs!”
“Legs?” he asked. “What on earth for?”
She studied the fax. It wasn’t there. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Basketball star? Ballet dancer? What I do know is he’s got two darling children, Alyssa and T.J., Timothy Junior. They’re twins, just a year old. Today’s their birthday, in fact.” It wasn’t—not for another two days—but she decided to risk that one lie. “Do you really want to butcher their daddy on their birthday?” she continued. “Make those angels cry on their special day for the rest of their lives?”
“Hey!” he snapped. “I’ve got nothing against kids!”
“Of course, you don’t,” Bertha said. “No real man does. So why don’t you let him go?”
He blew out his breath. “I’m disappointed, Bertha. I thought you were taking me seriously.”
“I am, John,” she assured. “I heard Timothy’s screams. They’re real. They tell me you’ll go all the way.” She shook her head as if he could see. “But you don’t have to actually commit the murder. The fact that you can do it is enough, isn’t it?” No answer. “Knock Timothy cold, and dump him at a truck stop. We’ll find him. You’ll get away clean since he can’t identify you, and we certainly have no idea what you look like.”
“But you’re figuring out where I am, Bertha,” Doe countered. “SWAT boys are closing in on me even as we speak, aren’t they?”
“No,” she said forlornly, eyeing the techs. “I’m trying to track you, sure. A young man I care about is in the tall weeds, and I want to find him. But I can’t.”
“Certain about that, Bo-Bertha?”
She cocked her head. For the first time the man’s tone and words didn’t match. It was subtle, but unmistakable—John Doe didn’t sound as surprised as he should have at the “joyous” news the cops couldn’t track his location.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Bertha said. “You know why, John? Because my caller ID’s busted!” She ground her knuckles into her throbbing forehead. “Ten-million-dollar piece of junk!”
“There’s never a cop when you need one,” Doe said. “Cyber or otherwise.”
Bertha’s heart lifted a fraction. A joke was a good sign. “What’s equally important is you haven’t committed murder,” she said. “Only assault.”
“And kidnapping, Bertha,” he said. “Or did you repeal that particular felony when I wasn’t looking?”
“Let Timothy go, and you won’t be charged with anything.”
Silence. “Now that’s interesting,” he said. “Tell me more.”
“You release Timothy without further harm. In return, we give you a get-out-of-jail card that exempts you from all prosecution in this matter. The chief of police has already confirmed it with the governor, and the feds are on board.” Trout Lips rolled his eyes. She shrugged.
Doe laughed. “No prosecution? After I tortured a cop?”
“We want Timothy alive more than we need you in jail.”
“Huh. Might be worth considering at that. I did prove my point.”
She gripped her chair. “Yes, you did. So get out. Now. Caller ID will be fixed any minute, and the first copper that finds you will—”
“Shoot first and ask questions later?”
“You bet! When the Staties arrive, you’ll be shot 3,000 times for resisting arrest!” Bertha barked. “So escape while you can! Timothy has those two darling babies, and he’s never done you any harm—”
“Pay attention when I talk!” Doe interrupted angrily. “I told you I’ve never met the man.”
“Then why do this?” Bertha asked. “Why torture this innocent—”
Doe’s chuckle was so low and evil, she knew he’d never intended to stop. This entire conversation had been an amusement for him. “It’s simple, Bo-Bertha,” he said brightly. “Practice makes perfect.”
“Please, John, don’t. I’m begging you.”
“It’s unfortunate your trooper has to die, because I honestly have nothing against him,” he said. “But I need to know. For her. Anything less than perfection isn’t worthy of her.”
“Her?” Bertha said. “Her who?” But John Doe was away from the phone. Tools clanged. Handcuffs ratcheted. Timothy whimpered. John sang.
Then he was back.
“There’s nothing you could have said to stop what’s happening,” he said. “I called you because I wanted a live audience for this dress rehearsal. The only phone answered twenty-four hours a day is 911.” His laugh slashed like broken glass. “You’re a nice lady, Bertha. Clever. If anybody could have convinced me to stop, it would have been you. But it wasn’t in the cards. Sorry you got stuck.”
“I don
’t feel stuck, John, not at all. I just want you to stop. Please stop. I’ll conference in the chief right now, John. Please, I’m begging you. Listen, here, here, my last name is Pruitt—”
“There’s no way you could have known about the false-number generator I attached to my cell phone to scramble your caller ID. Or the digital voice changer that lets me sound like anyone I want. For all you know, I could be a woman.” She heard a hand slap flesh. “Oops! There go my trade secrets! You wormed it out of me, Bertha. Hope your chief gives you a nice raise—”
“Pruitt, Bertha Pruitt, born right here in Boston as Bertha Bridget—”
“And last but not least, because you finally told me your name, I’ll let you be Timothy’s escort to the hangman. Just like I’ll be hers.” He cackled. “Merry Christmas, Bo-Bertha.”
Frantic screaming assaulted Bertha’s ears. “He’s slicing me!” Timothy cried. “With the scalpel! Cutting my chest…Please, Bertha, help….” The heavy whine of a power tool kicked in. “Oh my Christ it’s a circular saw! Don’t do this, mister. My wife, my sweet precious babies…”
The whirling steel hit home, and Timothy’s hideous shriek couldn’t mask the industrial butchering of muscle and bone. Bertha smashed the blinking computer display with her soda can till both broke, then collapsed in her chair, head exploding. “Sweet Jesus, he’s sawing out my heart!” Timothy gurgled, to the room’s utter horror. “You promised, Bertha, you promised to save me! You promised…”
CHAPTER 1
Monday, 6 A.M.
Seventy-two hours till Emily’s birthday
Emily Thompson exploded off her back porch, ready to sweat. Buried in overtime the past three weeks as flu knocked down more and more of her colleagues, she’d shoved her daily run to the back burner. That was stupid, she knew—six miles every morning provided the clear head she needed for her job. Keeps my thighs in check, too! But when she was under the gun, she tended to replace sensibility with the Four Horsemen—caffeine, sugar, fat, and sitting around. She’d vowed last night to rectify the situation, so here she was, running fast under the French vanilla sky heralding dawn.
Her war whoops panicked spring’s first robins into flight as she sailed down her steep backyard hill toward the DuPage River. Like an Olympic hurdler, she cleared the drainage ditch—exactly twenty-nine strides from her porch—and the long, low stack of seasoned firewood—forty-two strides—enjoying the burn in her knotted calves. The dank smell from the river sparked her adrenaline, and she reveled in the sensation of flight as Canada geese flapped so low, she could practically rub their ivory bellies. She plunged into the narrow dirt path through the trees and tall weeds at the hill’s bottom and emerged a minute later at the Naperville Riverwalk, the redbrick walking trail that edged the DuPage like eyeliner.
“Aw, man! I can’t believe it,” Emily grumbled as warm liquid splashed on her legs. She glanced at the sky and waggled her finger. “Hey! You can’t give me one day without mud puddles?” Apparently not. If the fresh-from-the-box Nikes had been black, or even navy, it would have been months before she crudded them up. But, no, they only came in white. Sigh. She untied the left shoe, stripped the sock, wrung it like a dishrag…then wondered why there was a puddle in the first place. It hadn’t rained since March 1. Today was April 28. In the Chicago area, spring without rain was so unheard-of, the TV anchors were already chanting, “Dust Bowl! Dust Bowl!” Puzzled, she looked closer at the sock.
The wet spots were pink.
She dropped her eyes to the puddle.
It was red.
Her pulse quickened. She knelt, sniffed. A coppery scent of old pennies. She dipped two fingers, rubbed them together. Thick. Slippery.
Blood.
“What on earth is going on?” Emily whispered. She shook her chestnut hair off her face and listened. Rippling from the river. Gnats buzzing in her ears. Faint crashing in the underbrush. Raccoon? Beaver? No, heavier, a deer perhaps. Honks from distant cars, ducks quacking, doves mourning, squirrels scampering, geese flapping. Then even those hushed, leaving no sound but her breathing.
She stood, spun around. Nothing amiss. In front of her flowed the DuPage, the hip-deep river that divided the city of Naperville north and south. To her left was downtown. To her right, wooded parkland. Across the river, houses and more park. Behind her, atop the north river crest, the two-story log home her husband, Jack, built as his wedding present to her. The back of their home looked down on the river. The front faced Jackson Avenue, which started at their driveway, paralleled the river to downtown, and dead-ended at Washington Street, the main north-south arterial of Chicago’s biggest suburb.
She turned back to the river to see a V of geese landing on the whitecaps at the precise angle Mother Nature spent millions of years perfecting. She shook her head. Except for the blood, there was nothing wrong with this picture—
Whoa.
Twenty feet ahead. At the edge of the maroon paver bricks.
Two lumps.
Before they’d looked like matted leaves. Now they didn’t. She walked toward them, stomach lurching. There weren’t two lumps, she realized, but three. One big, the others smaller. They had no color but radiated an emotional intensity so fierce, they couldn’t be anything but…
“Dead babies!” Emily gasped. She clawed her 9-millimeter Glock from under her Ramones T-shirt, front sight wobbling from the adrenaline tsunami slamming her body. She crept toward the lumps, trying to look everywhere at once. If the perp’s watching, he can kill you, too, she reminded herself. Keep your head moving and your trigger finger cocked.
She dropped her arms and rolled her eyes, glad nobody could see her flush of embarrassment. The lumps weren’t human after all.
The big one was a goose. The little ones, ducks. So freshly dead, they steamed.
“Dummy,” Emily chastised herself as her heart sank back into her chest. “They’re animals!” She tried to recall the recent memo on Riverwalk predators. There were foxes. Owls. Coyotes. Dogs wandering around off-leash. The occasional bobcat, forced onto human turf because subdivisions stole its natural habitat. Any of them could have killed these birds.
She picked up a winter-burned pine branch and turned over the first bird to see if she could guess the predator from the bite pattern. She stared, flipped the others. “The heads are gone,” she breathed. Lopped cleanly at the base of each graceful neck. With a knife. An ax. A machete, possibly, or…hedge clippers? Could a human have done this instead of an animal?
“No way,” she said, dismissing the notion. “Nobody brings a Lawn Boy to the Riverwalk. A coyote killed these geese, plain and simple.”
Correction, Princess, the familiar voice of her husband whispered in her head. One goose, two ducks!
“Oh, Jack,” she murmured back. “Why did you have to leave me?”
Biting off the thought, she pitched the carcasses into the underbrush so the stroller moms arriving later wouldn’t have to see them. Then she blew out her breath and loped toward downtown. She smiled as the river scent sharpened. If Proust had his madeleines, she had her moss—the muddy-dog aroma that triggered delicious remembrance of her childhood on Chicago’s Southwest Side. Specifically, the dank basement of their yellow-brick bungalow, where her parents stored the board games they broke out every Saturday night for the “Thompson Family Game and Ice Cream Festival.”
She kept running.
She rounded the curve near the old limestone quarry that served as Naperville’s municipal beach, her bloodstained Nikes pounding cadence. Several minutes later she dipped under the Main Street Bridge, where her foot slaps echoed hollowly off the concrete.
She closed her eyes and imagined being at this spot two centuries ago, when a thunderous flood ripped the guts out of the spanking new town. She smiled. Her husband, Jack Child, a local history buff, was forever taking her on the grand tour of Naperville’s ghosts. “Here lies the Pre-Emption House,” he’d cry as they quick-marched through downtown. “Oldest tavern west of the Al
leghenies! Where Abe Lincoln guzzled beer and Grover Cleveland snored away the night!” He’d wave at the far north end of Main Street. “Yonder lies the Stenger Brewery, built 1848, bulldozed 1956! Its underground cooling tunnels are still there today, buried deep underground!”
Just like Jack…
God! Where is all this melancholy reminiscence coming from? “Stupid birds,” she hissed. “It’s your fault.” She left the Riverwalk and sprinted south along Washington Street. Next stop Naperville Cemetery, the halfway point of her Jack-to-Jack Fun Run. For ten years she’d made this trip from the house that Jack built to where he now made his eternal rest, and she hadn’t yet found a reason to stop.
“Hi, baby,” she wheezed as she pulled up to his grave. The lawn was shaggy here and there, the grass finally unknotting itself from long winter hibernation. “How are you today?” Bending to straighten the roses and baby’s breath she’d placed here Friday, she traced Jack’s name in the tombstone, marveling at how well the deeply chiseled channels were holding up to the elements. Today being Monday, the flowers were pecked ragged—the crows had undoubtedly gotten to them. She leaned against the chilly stone and told her husband about the birds, the coyotes, the blood puddle.
She flinched at the shrill noise emanating from her belly. Straightening, she unclipped the departmental pager from the gun belt that girdled her hips.
555-7428. 911.
Captain Hercules Branch, the Naperville Police Department’s chief of detectives. The “911” meant “call back immediately.” But the fun run was the only occasion when she didn’t carry a cell phone. She hated interruptions when talking to Jack. The cemetery office didn’t open till nine, and she was south of the business district. Let’s see, who’s awake this early?
Exactly 622 strides later—she always counted when she ran, a good practice for estimating distances at traffic accidents—Emily flashed her badge at the emergency-room receptionist at Edward Hospital. “Police officer,” she panted. “Just got paged. Use your phone?”
Blown Away Page 2
