One by One

by Sarah Cain

  Ted didn’t know he was going to kill Greg until that night. He’d surrendered most of his dignity. He wasn’t offering up his family. He’d pulled out his Glock and pointed it at Greg.

  “Go upstairs,” he’d said.

  “Is this something kinky?”

  “Just go. When you get to the bedroom, strip down to your boxers.”

  “You know I’m straight, Ted, but if you pay me enough . . .”

  Something had taken over Ted’s mind. He walked behind Greg, made him strip down and sit in the middle of the bed. Greg was still taunting him when Ted shot him point blank in the heart. Greg fell back neatly on the bed as if he were sleeping.

  He didn’t know why he cut out Greg’s tongue. He didn’t know why he sent that text to Danny Ryan, except Greg had mentioned the weird texts he’d been getting. The friends who had died. Greg had asked him to see if any complaints had been filed in Wildwood in June of 1992. There hadn’t been anything, but it gave Ted a hint of something. He thought it would point attention away from the sex parties, and he knew that date would make Ryan look in a completely new direction. Should he have anticipated that a crime had been committed? Ted no longer knew or cared.

  The car pulled to a stop with a slight jerk. Early dawn was breaking over Georgetown, and he recognized his father’s redbrick townhouse at once. He took a breath and let it out slowly before he exited the car and walked to the green front door. It opened before he could knock.

  He followed the silent maid down the quiet hallway, appreciating, in spite of his feelings, his father’s taste in colonial furnishings. The blue carpeting set off the rich mahogany furniture, the large grandfather clock ticked away in the corner, and his father’s office was a showcase for his massive library of American literature, history, and law. Nobody could accuse Congressman George Crossman of being an illiterate when it came to the finer points of constitutional law. An authentic copy of the Constitution sat preserved under glass in the holy sanctum of the congressman’s office.

  Now his father stood up as Ted entered. The congressman was freshly shaved, showered, and dressed in an impeccable gray suit with a white shirt and pink tie. His tan was a perfect bronze, and it set off his blue eyes and dazzling smile. He was freshly Botoxed and, if Ted wasn’t mistaken, had recently undergone a little eyelid surgery. In a few years, his father would look younger than he did.

  “Ted,” his father said, holding out his hand.

  “Sir.” Ted shoved his hands into his pockets. It was easier to think of him as the congressman than as his father. “Is there a reason for this meeting?”

  “I’ve been concerned about you. This case you’ve been working. Your mother asked me to check on you.”

  That was a lie, but Ted admired the ease with which it flowed from his father’s lips. If his mother had been concerned, she would have called him herself.

  “I’m flattered. What’s so urgent that you had to see me face-to-face?”

  “This murder investigation. This Greg Moss case.”

  Ted sank down on the blue brocade sofa facing the fireplace. “What’s your interest in Greg Moss? Business or personal?”

  His father sighed and sat across from him. “All right. You know, Greg was helping us negotiate that land deal. It will impact the Philadelphia–Camden area. We were looking to acquire property for state and local development, and he had a company willing to work with us. His death was inconvenient.”

  “Inconvenient?”

  His father waved his hand. “Do you have any leads?”

  “As far as I know, it was done by someone with a tie to his high school days.”

  “High school? Are you certain?”

  “It looks that way. He was shot with a nine-millimeter semiautomatic. So were several other victims. We can’t necessarily tie the victims together, but it looks like a similar shooter. All the victims were in the same high school class. Apparently, they all were receiving text messages. It was a very strange situation.”

  “And you don’t have a suspect?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “How about that reporter? Any connection to the murders?”

  “Doubtful. He’s not a viable suspect.”

  “But he’s involved.”

  Ted gauged his father’s interest. It was weirdly high. That was both interesting and unnerving. The last thing he needed was his father poking around this investigation. He said, “Dan Ryan is only a witness. We’re hoping to reach a satisfactory conclusion to the case soon.”

  “What about the woman? Alex Burton? She’s a pain in my ass.”

  “I expect she’s doing her job.”

  “I’d like her to disappear.”

  Eliot shrugged. “That’s not my department. I’m not your trained baboon. I don’t make people disappear. I said I would keep you apprised of new developments. There are none.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting—”

  “I think you were.”

  “Let’s try this again.” His father clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “You, you’re well? You’ve been able to carry on?”

  Ted shifted in his seat and looked away. “Is this the real reason you brought me all this way? To ask questions you could have asked over the phone?”

  His father smiled. “Ted, we’re on the verge of making an enormous investment in the area. It will bring jobs and—”

  “Please. What’s your end of the whole thing? This must mean something to you or you wouldn’t have me sitting in your house.”

  “That’s unkind.”

  “That’s true.”

  His father sighed as if grievously wounded. As if that were possible. He said, “I have a small stake in the development. It’s important that it be done right.”

  A small stake? His father never had a small stake in anything. Whatever he was involved in had to be big. As Greg always said, he liked making connections. It was a partnership sealed in hell.

  “Greg was your partner.”

  “Something like that.”

  “How something?”

  His father smiled his wide constituent smile and brushed a nonexistent piece of lint off of his trousers. “We were connected,” he said. “That’s all you need to know.”

  That’s all he wanted to know. In the end, Ted didn’t care about his father’s deals and connections. He wanted to get out of this house and as far away from his father’s world as possible. He said, “Greg’s death wasn’t connected to your deal, as far as I can see. So you can rest safe.”

  “You’re sure that it won’t come back to bite me?”

  “I’m sure it had nothing to do with your business.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  “Am I free to go?”

  “You’re welcome to stay for breakfast.”

  “You’ll understand if I decline.”

  His father nodded. “I’ll have my driver take you back at once.”

  Ted stood. Only his father would drive him down to Washington for a ten-minute conversation because he was either too paranoid or too smart to talk on the phone. He wanted to go home, stand under a hot shower, and scald himself.

  “And Ted,” his father added, “I don’t suppose I need to remind you that this conversation never happened.”

  “What conversation?”

  *

  Congressman Crossman stood by the window and watched the car with his son inside pull away. Ted had looked gaunt, and his eyes were ringed with dark shadows. His lifestyle was catching up with him, or maybe he had something weighing on his mind. It was hard to be sure.

  “So the prodigal son returned. What do you think?”

  Crossman turned to assess Senator Robert Harlan. The older man stood in the doorway, a steaming cup of black coffee in his hand. His black eyes were, as always, cold and calculating, like those of a hawk or a vulture. Crossman hadn’t gotten involved with the nasty business that had sullied Harlan a few years ago. He’d heard the chatter about the child por
n ring. Harlan wasn’t personally involved—or so he’d said—but he’d invested money in some dubious clubs. It was enough to destroy his presidential ambitions. Nothing mucked you up faster than whispers about child abuse. There was no way around that bad press.

  “I think there isn’t going to be much of an investigation into Greg Moss’s business dealings. This murder seems connected to a serial killer, as I told you. If it was something else, Ted would tell me.”

  “Would he? You’re not that close.” Harlan paused to sip his coffee, his lips curling in what was close to a sneer. “Why do you have such faith? What’s changed in your relationship?”

  “I got Ted his job. I’ve covered up for him and pulled strings. If there were a problem, he’d tell me. He has a sense of survival.”

  “Indeed.” Harlan crossed the room, a little slowly, and sat on the sofa. “Survival. Yes. I suppose that’s a motivating force, but I know Daniel Ryan. If there’s dirt to be found, he’ll dig it up.”

  “Your son-in-law?”

  “Former.” Harlan practically hissed the words, and Crossman watched his eyes turn to black tunnels. Christ almighty. He never wanted anyone to look at him with that amount of malice. A shudder passed through him.

  “Don’t worry about that. I’m telling you. The cops say it’s some deranged serial killer. Maybe Ryan’s the one doing the killing. You never know.”

  “No. We couldn’t get that lucky. It would be nice if he were to accidentally step in front of a bullet though.”

  “He’s not important, Bob. He’s not going to play a role in this investigation. He might end up dead himself.”

  “We can only hope.” Harlan set down the coffee cup on the Chippendale table and leaned back against the brocade cushions. “Don’t let this get out of control. Do you understand?”

  “Everything is under control.”

  53

  Two more shots rang out. They were followed by a shout and three more shots, but these weren’t coming at him. They were coming from inside the scale house. Danny stared up at the sky. He wasn’t dead yet. Blood soaked the leg of his jeans, but the bullet appeared to have grazed the skin instead of lodging in his leg. It ached, but he’d live.

  He had to get out of the line of fire. He took a deep breath.

  Pull yourself together, Ryan.

  Danny pushed himself into a crouch and gauged the distance between the scale and the side of the scale house. Less than fifteen feet. He could do that. His heart was pumping. Then he heard voices. Johnny must have made it into the scale house while he was napping in the sun.

  “What’s on the intake belt this morning, Frank? Nothing? Gotta fix that.”

  Johnny was dragging Frank outside, and Danny could see Frank’s left arm dangling as if it were broken. Blood leaked from his left shoulder, painting the yellow fabric of his polo shirt scarlet. The left side of his head was bandaged from where Danny had hit him yesterday, and he sported a black eye.

  “Ryan,” Frank shouted, “tell this little shit to let me go!”

  “Let’s get things fired up, right?” Johnny pointed his gun at Frank. “Let’s get the shredder rolling, Frank. Nothing like getting an early start.” He looked at Danny. “Isn’t that right, Dad?”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Danny said.

  “Get up.” Johnny pointed the gun at him, and Danny struggled to his feet. “Move, Dad.”

  Danny walked with them to the shredder, trying to process what was happening. There had to be something he could do. Frank tried to pull away, but Johnny twisted his left arm hard enough that Frank went down on his knees. He didn’t try to resist any longer.

  The control panel sat above the machine, housed in a glass-enclosed booth. “You first, Dad.” Danny pulled himself up the steps while Johnny dragged Frank up behind him. “Turn it on,” Johnny said.

  Frank turned on the motor, and the shredder rumbled to life. The intake belt gave a quick lurch and then began to roll up toward the top of the shredder, ready to feed mashed cars and chunks of metal to the hungry machine.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Frank shouted.

  Johnny turned on him, his eyes gleaming. “Come on. We need to make a deposit.” He looked at Danny and pointed the gun. “Move.”

  Danny said nothing. He walked with Johnny and Frank back to the scale house.

  “No games,” Johnny said to Frank.

  Frank didn’t appear to be in any kind of shape to fight. He was losing blood too fast. Danny didn’t think he’d ever seen Frank look so helpless. Together, he and Frank made half a person.

  Danny went with them into the scale house. Lying on the floor next to one of the big scales was a thin guy with the jack of spades tattooed on his bicep. The back of his head was blown away. Bits of brain and skull fragments covered the floor.

  “Wrap his head in something,” Johnny said.

  Danny shook his head. “It’s a little late, don’t you think?”

  “Mom doesn’t like a dirty floor.”

  Danny exchanged a glance with Frank, whose eyes darted around the room. Danny knew he was looking for a weapon. He followed Frank’s frantic gaze. There had to be something. In the huge wire baskets were bits of metal. On the pretext of looking for some kind of covering, he palmed a sharp piece of copper pipe and slid it in his pocket. It was small, but it would have to do. “Who the hell is this?” Danny asked.

  “Mark Piscone.” Frank’s voice was a weak monotone. He found a filthy piece of oil cloth, and Danny helped tie it around what was left of the guy’s head.

  “Take him to Frank’s car,” Johnny said. He gestured with the gun.

  Together, Frank and Danny managed to drag Mark Piscone’s body to the car and throw him in the trunk. Before they could shut the trunk, Johnny tossed in a propane canister.

  “This is an expensive goddamn car,” Frank said. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Too bad,” Johnny said. “Here’s how it works. You see that machine right there?” He pointed to a large construction vehicle with an arm that ended in a metal claw. “That’s called a grappler. Right, Frank?”

  “So what?”

  “Give me the keys. I know you got the keys to everything.” He grabbed Frank’s ring from his fingers and pulled him to the side of the car. “You look tired, Frank. You should sit down.” He opened the door to the back seat and shoved Frank inside.

  “What the fuck?” Frank started to grab the door, but Johnny grabbed him by the neck and leaned over him. He shot Frank first in the left kneecap and then the right.

  Frank began to howl. “Who sent you? I told Crossman I’d keep my mouth shut about the land. I don’t care about the arsenic. What the fuck is this?”

  Danny tried to grab the gun, but the kid clubbed him on the side of the head.

  “Jesus Christ, you can’t do this!” Danny cried.

  “Sure I can. They’re childproof locks.” Johnny smacked Danny again, then hit the ignition button through the open front window. He slammed the door shut. Danny could hear Frank screaming.

  “Jesus Christ. I wasn’t gonna to talk! Tell Crossman! I wasn’t tryin’ to jam him!”

  “It’s not about Crossman! It’s about my mother. You raped my mother! Jenna Jeffords!” Johnny leaned in and fired another shot at Frank, who slumped over, whimpering.

  Frank’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at Johnny with a mix of revulsion and horror. “I didn’t rape her!”

  Johnny grabbed Danny and pulled him to the grappler before he climbed in. “Watch this.” He turned the ignition, and the machine rumbled beneath them. Danny could hear Frank wailing.

  Danny shouted, “Jesus Christ, let him out. What the hell are you doing?” He ran toward Frank’s Caddy.

  “I don’t care about land. I care about my mom.” Johnny guided the grappler over to the car and dropped the claw before Danny could reach it. It grabbed the Caddy in its steel jaws, and Johnny pressed a lever. The car swung up in the air, and he dropped it on the int
ake ramp.

  Frank was struggling to free himself, but he had no strength. When Danny tried to jump onto the intake ramp, Johnny fired a shot that nearly grazed him.

  “I’ll put the next shot through your stomach, Dad.”

  The car was nearly at the top of the shredder. “I didn’t rape her. Your mom wanted it. I could be your father!” Frank was shouting.

  “‘Woe unto them that call evil good and good evil’!” Johnny yelled.

  Danny ran to the booth and tried to grab the shredder controls, but Johnny was on him. He clubbed him once more with the butt of his gun, knocking him to the ground. “No!”

  Frank’s screams were barely audible over the roar of the shredder as the car tipped inside. The propane tank exploded. The machine rumbled and belched as it digested the car and what was left of its contents. Danny closed his eyes. He’d just helped Johnny Jeffords commit murder.

  “Move.” The kid had him by the arm again. “It’s time to go see Mom.”

  “I think you just killed your father.”

  “‘Fools make mock at sin.’”

  “Did you look at him?”

  Johnny raised his arm as if he was going to club him again but turned away. “Just get moving.”

  Danny glanced back at the shredder. The sun had cleared the horizon, but he was shaking with cold. This kid. This crazy goddamn kid. Danny reached into his back pocket for the piece of copper and leapt up, driving the pipe toward Johnny’s throat, but the kid deflected his arm. The copper shank tumbled onto the platform, and Johnny beat Danny with his gun until he sank to his knees.

  “Stupid move, Dad. Now I can’t trust you.”

  “You aren’t my son,” Danny managed to say.

  “Fuck you.”

  Danny’s right eye had swollen shut, and he stumbled as Johnny dragged him back toward the car. Then he thought about Alex. He had to pull himself together for her. It didn’t matter what happened to him. He had to help Alex.

  54

  Alex edged back toward the wall, heart pounding. Jenna didn’t move, but she watched with a sort of dispassionate amusement. In her right hand, Jenna gripped the large black flashlight, ready to club Alex should she get any ideas about running. Did she have any other weapons hidden? Alex tried to assess. Could she overpower Jenna? Possibly, but Jenna outweighed her by more than a hundred pounds. It could be an advantage or disadvantage. Maybe Jenna wouldn’t want to muss her wedding gown.