by D. V. Berkom
Tina appeared disproportionately pleased with the offering and answered him with something equally nauseating. Azazel bit down savagely on his triple-bypass burger, cursing the writers' inane dialogue.
Good God. I would never be as lame as that. A single rose? You've got to make an impression, not be a dweeb. And, this Javier person is no serial killer, obviously. She'd be a lifeless cocoon by now, if he had any balls.
Azazel polished off the French fries and the other half of the hamburger and sucked down the sixty-four ounce cola as he watched the rest of the dreary farce, growing more incensed with every minute of show time. What they needed was a consultant. Someone who understood killers and could lend some credibility to the dialogue. Like they did with lawyers on legal dramas and law enforcement on cop shows. He'd offered his services, not even mentioning compensation, but Peter Bronkowski never even acknowledged his proposal.
Now Javier and Tina were in the pool, sipping tropical drinks with little orchid blossoms. A butler appeared, carrying a tray of canapés and assorted cheeses, with a nice little cheese slicer.
There, Azazel thought. The perfect time to slit her throat. The floating blood would have been absolutely ethereal in the existing pool light, not to mention easy to clean. Just drain the pool. A little bleach and you're done. Azazel punched his fists on the arms of his chair and yelled at the T.V. “Cut her throat you fucking idiot—” But Javier merely sliced off a morsel of camembert and fed it to her.
“Gag me.” Azazel made a retching sound, never taking his eyes off the screen.
Soon, he was screaming at the show, his blood pressure spiking with every word. The force began to build inside of him, making its presence known. His deep guilt over gorging on fast food didn't help matters. He couldn't stop himself from bingeing on the artery-clogging crap. It was Azazel's dirty little secret and it vexed him to no end. He took a deep breath and forced himself to turn off the T.V.
After a few moments he calmed down and could feel the force's power ebb. He swiveled back to his computer monitor and saw that none of her information had changed. Madeleine's car was still at the studio and he still didn't have a signal from her phone. She'd probably gone out somewhere with her co-workers.
Perhaps she inadvertently let the battery die? He hoped not. That would mean he was wrong about her abilities. A less worthy opponent. Careless.
No, she wouldn't have allowed it. Not when he'd assured her she'd be able to talk with her daughter once he'd verified the kill. Curious.
He would have to teach her a lesson in promptness. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he texted Gwen.
CHAPTER 26
THE DARK FIGURES reached for her, their long, sharp fingers resembling talons, closing in as she ran without destination. All around her swirling, misty shadows danced, impeding escape as though she were mired in quicksand. She glanced behind her and realized one of them had closed the distance. Her pursuer was familiar…yet she couldn't quite make out his face. Until he closed the gap another step.
The Frenchman, with a gaping wound across his neck. Blood flowed like a river down the front of his shirt.
She opened her mouth to scream.
Leine sat up, gasping. She shivered, remembering the dream. Confused, she scanned her surroundings. The dark room was unfamiliar at first and she tensed, wondering where the hell she was. She then became aware of the dull, throbbing ache behind her eyes.
Oh, yeah. My date with José.
As the fog of a night of too much tequila began to clear, she realized she was in Jensen's apartment on his couch, though still wasn't sure how she got here.
She groaned as she pulled off the blanket and sat up. A feeling she was forgetting something important gnawed at the edge of her brain, but she gave up trying to remember when nothing came.
Bits and pieces of the night debuted in a jumbled, dissociative mess. Leine hung her head in her hands, pleading with the pain to stop. Her tongue felt like a carpet. She stood, intending to go to the kitchen for a glass of water, but instead put her hand out to steady herself as the blood rushed to her head and the floor pitched hard to the left. She leaned against the arm of the couch and sucked in a breath. After a few minutes the apartment stopped moving. She glanced toward Jensen's room but decided against waking him. He saw her drunk last night. He didn't need to see her hung over now.
She reached for the strap on her purse by the couch when she remembered what was so important.
Azazel. He was going to call her when he received the hand as confirmation. Alarm swept through her as she dug inside her purse for her phone. She entered her password and checked incoming calls. The last entry read Private Caller.
The memory of disabling the GPS on her phone while she sat at the bar drowning herself in booze floated to the surface. She started to pull up the application to turn it back on but decided to wait until she was well away from Jensen's apartment.
What if he overreacted and killed April? The dread oozed through the hammering in her head and she found it hard to breathe. My God. What have I done?
Think, Leine. He's trying to lure you in. His actions screamed classic cat and mouse. The only card available to him was her daughter. He wanted his revenge, of that she was sure. The only way he could manipulate her was by dangling April in front of her as a carrot. He's not going to kill her until he has you.
But first, she needed to get out of the apartment before Jensen woke up. She slid her shoes on and folded the blanket, laying it on the couch. Then she slipped out the door and closed it gently behind her.
***
She caught a cab to the Happy Mermaid to pick up her car. Little by little, the night's fog cleared as she drove, and she ran through events in her mind, trying to remember as much as possible. She cringed at the memory of her call to Eric. Shit. Now he'd know she was in the area.
Not only that, but she threatened him with the information Carlos compiled before he died. Stupid, Leine. Why don't you just paint a bulls-eye on your back? There were several ways for Eric to find out where she lived; she'd filed a W-4 with the IRS for her job as security on Serial Date, and she'd used her married name to rent both cars. A quick rummage in her purse located the burn phone. She removed the battery, rendering it untraceable. She'd be safe in the car, for a while.
She found her smartphone next and decided to activate the GPS once she'd switched cars, hoping Azazel would assume hardware failure. She comforted herself with the knowledge that he needed April alive. For now.
The dead tranny's Facebook page popped, unbidden, into her mind, crowding out more pressing concerns. She'd felt a twinge of guilt for having made the mistake of cutting off the hand, but told herself she needed to do it to save a life. Besides, Tanya, or Ted, hadn't felt a thing.
Rita had pinged her location while they were sitting at the bar, letting her friends know where she was. Could April have done something similar? Leine wasn't even sure she had a Facebook page, much less whether she was into social networking.
Leine stayed offline except for an email account with an alias. With her previous line of work, she didn't want or need an Internet presence. As a result, social networking wasn't the first avenue she thought to pursue in locating her daughter. She gripped the steering wheel. Her stomach churned with the frustration of not knowing April the way most mothers would know their daughters. She pushed the emotions aside and concentrated on this slender thread of a lead.
She pulled into the show's lot and parked next to her other car. Then she slid the tablet out of its sleeve, turned it on and surfed to the Facebook login page. There she entered April's name in the search bar. Two possibilities appeared, and April was one of them. Her page was only accessible to 'friends'. Leine racked her brain, trying to come up with the name of a friend or two of April's to search. The only person she remembered was the kid who lived next door to them when Carlos was still alive: Cory. April and he had been inseparable, playing pirates and making each other walk the plank off the diving board in
the pool every chance they got.
Leine entered his name and got back several results. She scrolled down the list and checked each photograph, hoping to find someone who resembled him. Her heart beat faster when she recognized one of the pictures near the bottom of the list.
Years older, Cory still had an endearing nerdy look, all the way down to his thick black hipster glasses. Leine clicked on his picture and was taken to his page. Using an alias she set up a Facebook account and sent him a message referencing the pirate stuff and signing it 'April's mom, Leine'. Then she did a search for a phone number, but he wasn't listed.
She put the tablet aside with a sigh. There wasn't much else she could do now except drive home and wait for Azazel's call.
And hope Cory emailed her back.
***
Leine turned into her driveway, got out and locked the car. She walked to the front door but stopped short of inserting her key in the lock. The place felt different.
Puzzled, she searched in the dim light of early dawn for anything out of place, inching her way along the porch. Her empty flower pot hadn't moved, the cobwebs trailing off of it were still evident. Faint footprints were visible in the dust of the painted floor, but could've been hers or April's. When she reached the picture window, she glanced inside.
To the casual observer, the living room appeared normal; the couch and chairs were in their usual places, a magazine lay open on the coffee table, waiting for her return.
But there was one thing out of place: the couch cushions. Leine's habit was to face the zippers toward the back of the couch. The end of one of the zippers was visible on the center cushion.
Leine retraced her steps to the entry and carefully ran her hand along the upper section of the window. She did the same to the top and sides of the front door. Halfway up on the left-hand side of the door, she found what she was looking for.
She bent closer to get a better look. A small device, no larger than the tip of a pen, had been attached to the wood next to the door handle. A similar-sized piece was secured to the doorknob.
Leine had used the same wireless nano-trigger for a hit in Brussels several years ago. Interrupt the connection between the device and receptor by turning the handle, and kaboom. There wouldn't be enough left of her to identify.
Eric's been here.
Azazel wouldn't be able to secure that kind of technology. Leine doubted many outside of her old agency would have access to or even knowledge of its existence.
Didn't take him long to find me, she mused. At least he didn't get the folder.
Leine backed away from the porch and got into her car.
CHAPTER 27
PETER WAS ABOUT to step into his office when Paula called to him from the end of the hall.
“Wait up, Peter.”
He stood at the door, impatience nibbling at him. He had way too much to deal with right now. Not only did he need to handle the fallout from Heather's drowning, Brenda's abrupt resignation from the show, and Tina's incessant whining, but Edward had appeared listless and depressed the last time Peter visited. Being locked inside the house all day wasn't any way to live and Peter knew it, but he hadn't yet figured out what to do with his brother. Dr. Shapiro prescribed stronger meds, but getting Edward to take them was another matter.
Paula caught up to him and handed him an envelope.
“A package came for you early this morning. I put it on your desk. The woman asked me to hand deliver the note.”
“Thanks.” He glanced at the envelope. “Is that all? No more emergencies, right?”
Paula shook her head. “No, no more emergencies. I wanted to get this to you before you saw the package and wondered who it was from.”
“Okay then.” Peter opened his office door.
“You probably want to get to work—” Paula started to say as he shut the office door in her face.
Peter dropped his briefcase on the desk, next to the box. It was large, two-feet wide by two-feet high, and had his name written across the top. Peter opened the top drawer and found a pair of scissors which he used to cut through the packing tape on the box. He lifted the top and looked inside.
His breath cut short and he set the scissors down. His knees buckled as he dropped into his chair.
Inside the box rested a large cantaloupe on a gold-rimmed china plate supported by a gold charger. An elegant set of silverware wrapped in a linen napkin and secured with a shiny gold napkin ring lay to one side. On top of the melon lay a bloody scalp of shocking white hair. Two holes had been cut from the front of the fruit, into which had been placed a pair of human eyeballs. Blood had pooled and dried at the base of the sculpture, leaving a brick-red gash across the white china's gleaming surface.
Peter stared at the bloody white hair with dread. How did Edward escape? He'd visited him the day before and checked the locks and video cameras, made sure everything was secure. Peter had the sole set of keys. The only other way out of that house was to open an upstairs window and jump two stories to the ground.
With shaking hands, Peter opened the envelope and slid the piece of parchment free. Anxiety gnawed at his stomach with every sentence.
Dear Peter,
I realize Tina's untimely demise may come as a shock to you. Please accept my condolences. Her death was imperative, as the dialogue on the series had degraded to a point at which it was painful to watch. I was so alarmed by the latest promotional video that I realized at once the need for a fresh culling. I would have chosen the writers responsible for the scripted detritus that issued forth from her mouth, but soon realized all of them are much older than I prefer. You really must allow me to consult with them. I dare say it's painfully obvious there is nothing remotely real happening on this 'reality show'.
You shouldn't have too much of a problem replacing the woman. Besides, she wasn't getting any younger and would soon be past her pull-by date.
There's no need to thank me- your ratings should skyrocket as long as you use this opportunity to relentlessly promote her death. You mustn't allow it to be in vain.
Sincerely,
A concerned citizen
P.S. I've allowed things to slide with Stacy due to my increasingly heavy schedule. Should you decide not to publicize my latest endeavor and assign credit where due, I will take matters into my own hands and continue the culling, post haste.
Peter placed the letter on the desk, his mouth suddenly dry. He wouldn't be able to cover up Tina's disappearance. She was too popular. Besides, there'd been too many deaths and disappearances connected with the show. It wouldn't be long before the cops would be back to investigate. He raked his fingers through his hair. He'd have to report this. They'd never let the show continue. Peter's heart began to palpitate in his chest and spots appeared in front of his eyes. He reached into his desk drawer and brought out a bottle of vodka, poured himself a stiff drink and tossed it back in one swallow.
The familiar burn of the alcohol calmed him. He took a deep breath and carefully closed the box. Did Edward want to be caught? Was that it? And what about the letter? He'd never heard Edward talk like that, so articulate. Dr. Shapiro said the possibility was strong that Edward may have multiple personalities. Many cases reported at least one personality presenting as far more educated than the original patient. He shuddered at the thought of the fallout Tina's murder would bring. The show was over. Peter's career was over.
His passport was up-to-date, thank God, but what about Edward? He couldn't just leave him to fend for himself. Of course, if the evidence pointed to his brother, who was he to stand in the way of his arrest? At least then he'd have a place to stay and Peter could skip town, head for his villa in Croatia. Edward would never get the death penalty. Dr. Shapiro would ensure it by testifying that he was insane. He could then live out his days in a hospital somewhere with food, warmth and companionship. Not a bad deal, Peter thought.
But shouldn't he at least try to save the show? He'd worked so hard. Everything he'd done, everything he'
d sacrificed, would be worth nothing. It wasn't right that Peter had to abandon all he'd built. At least there'll be no more trips to Bountiful.
There was a knock at the door. Startled, Peter looked up.
“What is it?”
“It's Gene. I need to talk to you.”
Peter sighed and pressed the release for the door. His expression grave, Gene walked in and sat at one of the chairs next to the desk.
“We got a problem. Tina's a no-show.”
The laughter bubbled up through his chest and out through his lips before he could stop. Gene watched him with a puzzled expression that bordered on alarm. Tears streamed down Peter's face as each time he tried to stop laughing he'd be overcome with a fit of the giggles.
“What's so funny? Tina's missing. She never misses camera time.”
The tears were real, now, but Peter wasn't about to let Gene know he was cracking up. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and shook it off, taking several deep breaths.
“Sorry. I don't know what came over me. Have you checked the house?” Another giggle escaped. He avoided looking at the box on the desk. He hadn't decided what to do, yet, and wasn't sure he could trust Gene to keep Tina's death quiet.
Gene nodded, eyeing the box. “Yeah, we checked the house. I asked Julian when he saw her and he said last night. Nobody's seen her since then.”
“No note or anything?”
“No note. Think he got her, too?”
Gene's anxiousness annoyed Peter. Better that he didn't tell him about the scalp.
“I'm sure she's probably out somewhere. Let's wait until this afternoon, see if she surfaces before we involve the LAPD.”
“Man, you gotta call the cops if she doesn't turn up. I mean, there ain't many contestants left. You know what I'm sayin'?”
“Of course I do, Gene. I'm not an imbecile.” Peter stood and grabbed his briefcase. “Keep this under your hat for now.” By the look on Gene's face, that was the last thing he wanted to do. “Do this one thing for me, okay? I've got someplace I need to go first. Then, I promise, if she's not back by this afternoon, I'll make the call. Deal?”
