Suddenly, he had a use for the gun that had lain in his footlocker for the last six years, last registered in Connecticut, in the name of Donna Boyd.
Jack had never considered violence an answer to anything. But this was something altogether different. This was truly self-defense. Or was it? Deep down, he wondered if he actually hoped Goss would break into his house. As he sat back in the sofa in his living room with the ammunition he’d just purchased, he thought hard about his real motivation for not calling the cops. But the possibility that he was subconsciously looking for a showdown with Goss was ridiculous. Goss was the killer. Not him.
The phone rang. Jack muted the nine o’clock Movie of the Week on TV and snatched it up.
“Have you checked your mail, Jack?” came the familiar voice.
He hesitated. He knew that stalkers thrived on contact and that any “expert” would have told him just to hang up. But he was nearly certain he knew who it was, and if he could just get him to speak in his normal voice, he’d have confirmation. “This is not clever, Goss,” Jack goaded. “Knock off the funny voice. I know it’s you.”
A condescending snicker came over the phone, then a pause—followed by a decided change in tone. “You don’t know shit, Swyteck. So just shut up, and check your mail. Now.”
Jack blinked hard, frightened by how easily he’d set off the man’s temper. “Why?”
“Just check it,” the caller ordered. “And take the phone with you. I’ll tell you what to look for.”
Jack wondered whether it was wise to play along, but he was determined to get to the bottom of this. “All right,” he answered, then headed down the hall with his portable phone pressed to his ear. He looked through the window before stepping outside but saw nothing. He opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. “Okay,” he said into the phone. “I’m at the box.”
“Look inside,” the caller ordered.
Cautiously, Jack reached for the lid on the mailbox beside the door. He extended one finger, pried under the lid, and quickly popped it open, jerking his hand back as if he’d just touched molten lava.
“Do you see it, Swyteck?”
Jack stood on his toes and peered inside from a distance, fearful that he was about to see bloody gym shorts or torn panties or some other evidence of Goss’s latest handiwork. “There’s an envelope,” he said, seeing nothing else inside.
“Open it,” said the caller.
Jack carefully took the envelope from the box. It was plain white. No return address. No addressee. It had been hand-delivered, which meant the stalker had been on his porch—an unsettling thought. He unfolded the flap and tentatively removed the contents. “What is this?”
“What’s it look like?”
He studied the page. “A map.” A route had been high-lighted by yellow felt-tip pen.
“Follow it—if you want to know who the killer on the loose is. You do want to know, don’t you, Swyteck?”
“I already know it’s you, Goss. This is a map to your apartment.”
“It’s a map to the killer on the loose. Be there. Meet him at four-thirty A.M. tonight. And no cops. Or you’ll be very sorry.”
Jack bristled at the sound of the dial tone, then switched off the portable phone. At first it didn’t even occur to him to actually go to Goss’s apartment. But if Goss were going to kill him, would he do it in his own apartment? Would he invite Jack over and give him directions to the scene of the crime? No, he must be up to something else, and Jack’s curiosity was piqued.
But it was more than just curiosity. He was thinking of the night two years ago when he’d refused to give his father enough “privileged” information to stop Raul Fernandez’s execution. His rigidity had resulted in Raul’s death, and he was determined not to make the same mistake again. In dealing with a confessed killer who was continuing his evil ways, he had to be more flexible with privileged information.
It was time to issue an ultimatum. Months ago, when he and Goss had been considering an insanity defense, Jack had pumped him for information about his past crimes—some of which included murder. His client had told him plenty. Now it was time to confront Goss and let him know that if he wanted to stay out of the electric chair—if he didn’t want a prosecutor to get an anonymous tip about his most perverted secrets—then he’d better change his ways.
He stepped to the window and looked outside. It was getting dark and starting to drizzle. A storm was brewing if he was going to meet Goss, there was no reason to wait until four-thirty in the morning. In fact, it seemed safer not to wait. He started toward the door, then stopped. He went up to the attic, opened his footlocker, and found the .38. Downstairs, he spent several minutes cleaning the gun, then loaded it with bullets.
Just in case.
Chapter 14
•
Rain started to fall as Jack pulled his Mustang out of the driveway. The downpour was a continuation of a violent Florida thunderstorm that had flooded city streets that afternoon. The nasty weather didn’t bring him down, though. He was determined to get to Goss’s as quickly as possible, before he could change his mind. He raced his old eight-cylinder down the expressway at a speed only a fleeing fugitive would have considered safe, exited into a section of town that no one considered safe, and screeched to a halt outside Goss’s apartment.
The old two-story building stretched nearly a third of the city block. It was bordered on one side by a gas station and on the other by a burned-out shell of an apartment building that some pyromaniac landlord had probably figured could generate more income in fire insurance proceeds than in rent. Rusty iron security bars covered most of the ground-floor windows, plywood sealed off others, and noisy air conditioners stuck out of a few. Weeds popping up through cracks in the sidewalk were the closest thing to landscaping.
The rain beat loudly on the convertible’s canvas top and I seeped in where the twenty-year-old rubber window seals had rotted away. Jack jumped out and dashed through water that ran in wide rivulets down the street. He was at the apartment entrance in only fifteen seconds, but that was long enough for the rain to soak his clothes and paste them to his body. Dripping wet, he stepped inside the dimly lit foyer and checked the rows of metal mailboxes recessed into the wall. He had the right place. GOSS, APT 217, read one of them.
He ran up a flight of stairs to a long hallway lined with apartments on either side. It was even darker here than in the foyer, the tenants having stolen most of the bulbs to light their apartments. Spray-painted graffiti covered the walls and doors, forming one continuous mural. Most of the ceiling tiles had been punched out by kids proving how high they could jump. Rainwater leaked in from above and streaked down the water-stained walls, forming little puddles on the musty indoor-outdoor carpet. All was quiet, except for heavy raindrops pounding on the flimsy flat roof.
He started down the hall, checking the numbers on the doors that still had them. His pace quickened as he approached 217, the fifth door on the left. He was convinced that the only way to stop Goss was to threaten him—and to do so in a way that only his own lawyer could. If Goss was to report him to the Florida bar for threatening to reveal a client’s secrets, it could end his career. But it didn’t matter at this point. The stark contrast between his one tragic failure in the Fernandez case and his siring of “successes” in sending men like Goss back onto the streets to prey on an unwary public had weighed on him too long. He’d reached the lowest point of his life.
Jack knocked on the hollow wood door to Goss’s apartment, then waited. No one answered, but he refused to believe that Goss wasn’t there. He knocked harder, almost banging. Still no answer. “Goss,” he said loudly. “I know it’s you. Answer the door!”
“Hey!” an angry man shouted from an open apartment doorway down the hall. “It’s ten o’clock, man. I got a two-year-old here. Cut the racket.”
Jack took a deep breath. He’d been so focused in his pursuit of Goss that he’d acted as if no one else lived in the building. Th
at was a stupid approach, he realized. So he stepped back from the door and slowly headed down the hall, as if to leave. As soon as Goss’s neighbor retreated into his apartment, Jack quietly but quickly returned to apartment 217 and turned the knob. It was unlocked. He hesitated and listened for footsteps on the inside. Nothing. He pushed the door open slowly, about a foot, and peered inside. All was dark and quiet. He pushed it open further, about halfway, and stood in the open doorway.
“Goss,” he said in a firm voice. Then he waited.
There was no reply, only the sound of heavy tropical rain tapping on the roof and against the window on the other side of the room. Jack swallowed hard. As he saw it, he had two choices. He could turn and walk away, his tail between his legs. If he did, it would only be a matter of time before he got another threat, before the violence escalated further. His other choice—the only real choice—was to do something right then.
He discreetly checked the hallway, but saw no one. Then he stared nervously into the dark apartment. He could hear his heart pounding and feel his palms begin to sweat. He took a deep breath and reached deep inside himself for the strength he needed. Slowly and very cautiously, he entered the dark, deathly quiet apartment of Eddy Goss.
“Goss,” Jack said again, standing just inside the open door. “It’s Swyteck. You and I need to talk, so come on out.”
When after a few seconds there was no response, Jack reached out and flipped the light switch by the door. But no lights came on.
A huge bolt of lightning cracked just outside, sending his heart to his throat. The storm was worsening, the heavy rain pelting against the room’s only window. Another large bolt struck even closer, bathing the small room in a burst of eerie white light. Jack got a mental snapshot, hastening his eyes’ adjustment to the layout of he apartment. The kitchen, dining, and living areas were one continuous room. A ghostly white bed sheet covered the window. Furniture was sparse—he noticed only a beaten-up old couch, a floor lamp, a kitchen table, and one folding chair. The walls were bare, but there were a few plants. Not your ordinary houseplants. These were big and colorful crucifixes, Stars of David, and other tributes to the dead, all made of chrysanthemums and other fresh flowers, apparently stolen by Goss from graves at the local cemetery. Jack felt anger rising in him as he read one pink ribbon inscribed our beloved daughter. He looked away in disgust, then noticed a door across the room that led to the bedroom. It was open.
Whit-whooooo, came a sudden shrill-pitched whistle from the bedroom, like a catcall at the girls on the beach. Jack coiled, ready for an attack.
Whit-whoooo came the sound again, a little louder this time.
His heart raced. The urge to turn and run was almost irresistible, but his feet refused to retreat. Slowly, he forced one foot in front of the other, surprising even himself as he moved closer to the bedroom. He took deliberate, stalking steps, trying to minimize the squeak in his rain-soaked tennis shoes. He stared at the open doorway as he steadily crossed the room, his eyes wide with intense concentration, his every sense alert to what might be inside the bedroom. He flinched slightly as heavy thunder rumbled in the distance. He halted just two steps away from the open door.
Whit-whooooo came the whistle again.
The whistling spooked Jack, but it was also beginning to anger him. The bastard was taunting him. This was all just a game to Goss. And Jack knew the rules by which Goss played his games. He took the loaded gun from his pocket.
“Eddy,” he called out. “Cut the game-playing, all right? I just want to talk to you.”
Thunder clapped as a flash of lightning filled the room with strobe-like light. Jack took a half step forward, and then another. He glanced at the kitchen table beside him. There was a dirty plate with dried ketchup and remnants of Goss’s fish-stick dinner. An empty Coke bottle. A fork. And a steak knife. The sight of the knife made Jack glad he had his gun. He raised his weapon to chest level, clutching it with both hands. His hands were shaking, but he wasn’t about to stop now. He took the last step and peered inside the bedroom.
A sudden shriek sent Jack flying backward. He saw something—a figure, a shadow, an attacker! But as he took a step back and tried to squeeze off a shot, he lost his balance. He collided with the floor lamp, sending it careening across the carpet. For a second he was on his hands and knees, then he struggled to his feet, panting from the burst of excitement. The fight was over as quickly as it had started. “A stupid cockatoo,” he said aloud, but with a sigh of relief.
Whit-whooooo, the bird whistled at him, perched on his pedestal.
Jack flinched, suddenly panicked by what sounded like footsteps in the hall. He didn’t want to have to explain himself to someone checking on the noise. He shoved the gun into his pants, ran from the bedroom, and pushed up the window to open it. But it raised only six inches. A nail inside the frame put there by a previous tenant as a crude form of security kept it from opening all the way. Jack’s heart raced as he thought heard the footsteps in the hall getting closer. He quickly scanned the room, grabbed the steak knife from Goss’s dinner table, and used it like a claw hammer to work the nail free. At first the nail wouldn’t budge, but then it suddenly popped out. As it did, the knife slipped and sliced Jack across the back of his left hand. He was bleeding, but was too scared to feel the pain. He tossed the knife back toward the table and climbed out the open window. He climbed down the rickety fire escape like a middle-schooler on monkey bars, letting himself drop the last ten feet and landing with a splash in an ankle-deep puddle. He ran around the building and back to his car as fast as he could, then pulled away slowly, realizing that the faster he went, the more suspicious he’d look.
As he drove he took several deep breaths, trying to collect himself. He checked the back of his left hand. The cut was fairly deep and still bleeding, but it didn’t look like he’d need stitches. He steered with his wounded hand and applied pressure with the other to stop the bleeding.
“Damn,” Jack cursed at himself—and at that stupid cockatoo. That bird had scared the hell out of him. It seemed strange that Goss would own a bird—that he’d care about any living creature. But then it made sense as he thought of the bird pecking at his food around the pedestal. Seeds. There had been all kinds of seeds—the seeds of the Chrysanthemum Killer. Jack thought again of Goss’s comment: “I still have a lot of seeds to sow.”
As he put more distance between himself and Goss’s apartment, he re-evaluated the events that had drawn him there—the phone call, the map, the invitation to meet the “killer on the loose.” It made him think through Goss’s gradual escalation of violence and what might be the logical next step after killing his dog. He was suddenly afraid his instincts had been right. Goss was not luring him to his apartment to kill him but, rather, someone else.
“Cindy,” Jack said aloud, frantically weighing the possibility. Maybe he was giving Goss too much credit, but on the other hand, this madman could have lured him to his apartment at exactly 4:30 A.M. to make sure Cindy would be alone—so that Goss could sow another seed.
Jack punched the accelerator to the floor and raced toward Gina’s apartment, steering with one hand and dialing his car phone with the other. It wasn’t even midnight yet, let alone 4:30 A.M., but he was not taking any chances.
“Come on,” Jack groaned at the busy signal from Gina’s apartment. He tried the number again. It was still busy, so he asked the operator to interrupt. “Yes, it is definitely an emergency,” he said firmly.
But Gina refused to let him cut in.
“What do you mean, she won’t let me?” he asked with disbelief. But the operator gave no explanation.
He switched off the phone and drove even faster, fearing the worst.
Chapter 15
•
Seven minutes later the Mustang careened over a speed bump and squealed to a stop outside Gina’s condominium. Jack jumped out, devoured two steps at a time on the stairway to Gina’s front door, and then knocked firmly. He paced frantica
lly until Gina finally opened up.
“Is everything okay?” he asked. “Are you all right?”
Gina stood in the doorway, wearing a tight-fitting white denim mini and a loose red tank top that revealed as much of her breasts as any wandering eye cared to see.
“Where’s Cindy?” he demanded.
“Cindy’s out.”
“Out where?”
Gina made a face. “Out being twisted like a pretzel by a squadron of Chippendale dancers. It’s none of your business where she is. She’s out.”
“I have to find her. I think someone may be after her.”
“Yeah,” Gina scoffed, hands resting on her hips. “You are.”
Jack stiff-armed the door to keep Gina from shutting it in his face. “I’m not making this up. Ever since the Goss trial ended, someone’s been following me—making threats. Some guy with a raspy voice called me and said there was a killer on the loose. He tried to run me over with his car. He killed my dog. And now he might be after Cindy.”
Gina’s face finally registered concern. “Cindy’s safe,” she said coolly. “After you two had your little Saturday morning brawl, she decided to catch an earlier flight to Rome. We went by the house this afternoon while you were out, and cleaned out her closet. Then dropped her off at the airport. She’s on her way to Italy.
“Oh,” he said, “that’s great.” But he didn’t feel great. He was relieved that she was safe, but he was having hard time adjusting to the fact that she was actually gone. Some part of him was wishing he had had one last chance to explain himself to her.
Gina watched as he turned to leave. It amazed her the way Jack looked after Cindy, even after they’d split up. Gina had definitely felt rejected last year, when Jack had dropped her for Cindy after their one blind-date. And although Jack and Cindy were both denying it to themselves, she was convinced that the trip to Italy would be the end of their relationship—which only made her wonder, as she’d often wondered before, just what it would take to get Jack to notice her.
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