Serial Intent

by Steve Bradshaw

  “You think it was our new sniper?”

  Dunn lit his cigar and puffed. “I guess Margaret found one. I don’t like that Barry Woods was killed. He was a broken young man. We didn’t sign up for that.”

  “Did they say who the sniper shot at?”

  “Nope, but they did report a man named Jennings Babcock died in the Willis Tower earlier that morning—cause of death pending. The Chicago homicide people were out there investigating. It said the guy was in his eighties, nothing out of the ordinary, looked natural.”

  “Then why were the homicide people out there?” Mason asked. “With all the goddamn killings going on in this city, they got no time to be checking on some eighty-year-old man dead due to natural causes.”

  “Don’t get worked up over nothing,” Dunn said. “I don’t have the answers for anything. Tell me why you dragged me out in this cold. We said we would stop doing this for a while, at least until the weather got above twenty. I froze the cheeks clean off my backside last time.”

  “It’s about the Dario Group,” Mason said as he cleaned his wire glasses with snow.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m pretty much burnt out on the whole thing.”

  “Easy for you to say. You got justice. Pender is dead.”

  Dunn stopped sucking his cigar and turned to the man who had become his best friend over the last five years. “What has you all riled up, Robert?”

  “You are ready to chuck the Dario Group because you have gotten justice for Beth and Billy. I get it. I understand it. I just—”

  “Slow down. We’re in this together.” Dunn patted Mason’s shoulder and puffed faster. “Since we’ve been doing this, the Dario Group has eliminated nine monsters. Remember, it was about killing all the monsters.” Dunn turned to the lake. “Eric Ramsey, James Pender, Frank Pazrro, Jake Newman, Charles Bordon, William Marcantonio, two bodyguards they will not release names on, and Jack Noway. These people were monsters, Robert, but they were still human beings. I can’t get them out of my head. I never knew that was gonna happen.”

  “What about Barry Woods? What about Paul Timberman?” Mason muttered.

  “Those hurt, especially Barry Woods. Timberman went nuts. He got what he should have gotten. He tried to kill a homicide detective. But Woods was struggling over the death of Ellen Dumont. He had failed her.” Dunn turned to Mason. “At least we had some life with our wives. Those two were so young. They had not even gotten married yet. Then the Dario Group founders make a unilateral decision. I thought we had a vote on such matters. I never believed breaking a bylaw would really get you killed.”

  “I have something to say,” Mason whispered.

  Dunn turned. “I know. We gotta call it a day. We gotta leave this group and move out of Chicago to a place where we can live out our lives in some kind of peace.”

  “Not yet,” Mason said. He stopped cleaning his glasses and slid them into his coat pocket. Dunn sat up straight. Mason had worked up to the moment. “Mathew T. Whitten is getting out of prison tomorrow.”

  “The son of a bitch who killed Susan?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want the Dario Group to terminate Whitten,” Dunn said.

  “Yes. I can’t leave until that’s done.”

  Dunn pitched his soggy cigar butt into the snow. He could not work with the Dario Group anymore. The nine kills had made it impossible for him to sleep, and he just read about the death of Frank Peters. Mason did not know that the man in the cowboy hat by the fire on Birch was a serial killer. The bastard had infiltrated their secret club and targeted a female member. Dunn knew the monsters could be anywhere. Mason did not know Frank Peters’ DNA had linked him to a dozen rapes and kills.

  “Are you going to say something, Charlie?” Mason asked.

  Dunn was slow, but he was not stupid. He knew things were not good for the Dario Group. After Dr. Sorensen got killed by a delusional patient with multiple personalities, the vigilante group started to drift off course. Margaret Sorensen tried to hold it together, but she did not know how to stop Dario, and she stuck with bylaws that killed innocent people. Dunn knew Detroit, the CPD, and Dario were closing in. It was no longer safe. It was time to go.

  “Are you with me or not Charlie?” Mason asked.

  Dunn turned to his friend, the last person on earth who meant something to him. Mason was there for him when no one else was.

  “Yes,” Dunn said. “We get Whitten terminated fast, and then we get out of Chicago.”

  “Thanks, Charlie.”

  Twenty-Eight

  “The next ten seconds of silence were like ten hours in hell.”

  * * *

  Margaret Sorensen thought she was safe on Birch. Nobody had the address except the members of the Dario Group. A bylaw spelled it out—revealing the location was punishable by death.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” Mason said as he took a stuffed chair next to the fire, the one Frank Peters often chose. From it he could see out the three windows and through the archway into the kitchen and dining room. Charlie Dunn took a seat on the sofa across from the fire.

  “I made adjustments when I received your message,” she said. “Please, Mr. Mason, tell me more about Mathew Whitten.”

  Outside, sleet pelted the window panes. Inside, the fire popped and candles flickered—Mrs. Sorensen preferred it to electricity. The darkness and chill reminded her of the winters she and Jacques spent in Marquette Park years ago, their Indiana escape from the big city. When the property across Birch went on the market, they snapped it up to further secure their slice of privacy in a dangerous world. The two Birch properties were their secret—they kept them from family and friends for three decades. Now old, she sat alone in her dead mother’s favorite stuffed chair knitting by the fire and wondering if she and Jacques had lived a good life.

  “Mathew T. Whitten sexually assaulted and killed my wife seven years ago. He was on the run for two years and on trial for one. He was represented by Marcantonio attorneys. Whitten fits the Dario Group profile. The man’s a serial killer and there is no question as to his guilt.”

  “I read his profile, Mr. Mason. Did you discuss Mr. Whitten with my husband?”

  “Yes. Whitten is why I joined the group in the first place. Dr. Sorensen agreed Whitten would be placed on the kill list if the man was released from prison. He got out today after four years. Look at the termination protocol. It has both our signatures. That document demands the attention of the Dario Group within days of release.”

  She fanned through the file and pulled out the single page. “This is the protocol.” She laid it on her lap and read every word as Mason and Dunn stared at the fire.

  Nobody saw the tall black man wearing the knit cap and sweats—he stood at the edge of the den in the darkest shadow. It was the glint off the knife that caught Dunn’s eye. Without moving he found the man’s sick grin and froze as Sorensen finished reading.

  “I am satisfied this is an official document. The Dario Group shall honor your initiation agreement. I’m certain Jacques would want it that way.” She slid it back into the file and smiled at Mason. “However, at the moment the Dario Group has a few business matters to resolve first.”

  The creaking board moved her eyes to the archway. She saw the black man and slid her hand between the seat cushion and chair arm. Her fingers frantically searched for her gun. “Who are you?” she asked, but already knew the answer.

  He held up her derringer. “Lookin’ for dis, ole’ lady?” He stepped into the den like he owned the room—he did. Another black man stepped out of the shadows. They spread out. “We from Detroit.” He pocketed the derringer and ran his thumb across his shiny blade. “They call me Jevon. This be Deke. And da big man behind ya be Andre’. Ya can see—he big. You know Andre’ the Giant. His mama watched wrestlin’. Named her first boy, Andre’.”

  “You are from Detroit,” Mrs. Sorensen said. “I assume you work for Mr. Doran.”

  “You is one smart ole’
white lady,” Jevon said as he moved closer to the fire staring at Mason. “That’d be a correct assumption.” He looked back at Deke. “Where Liddell? He posed to be here. I told ’em ten minutes.”

  “Liddell outside runnin’ ’round,” Deke said. “He securin’ things.”

  “We in da boonies, fool. We on a dead end mother-fuckin’ road, in da woods in a snow storm. Ain’t nobody gonna be out in this shit snoopin’ ’round for some black men with knives and guns doin’ home invasion shit, man. Get Liddell. Tell him ta get in here.”

  Charlie Dunn had physical limits. He lost the ability to damage anything and anybody years ago. Robert Mason worked out. His strength came in short bursts. Arthritis and a bad heart would allow for one wild swing, but Mason would miss the target and drop out of exhaustion.

  Margaret Sorensen had zero physical skills to call upon. Without her derringer or the shotgun from under the bed, she could only sit and hope for the best. Like Jacques, Margaret could talk her way out of most situations. The intellectual capacity of her invaders made talk an unlikely route to resolution. Regardless, she had to try.

  “Gentlemen, we owe Mr. Doran $100,000. I am sure that’s what you are here for. Please understand that we have had some unfortunate developments and a recent unexpected event. The money for Mr. Doran is tied up in a bank account now under the control of the Chicago police. Realizing the release of those funds could be further delayed, I made arrangements for another $100,000 to be sent. It will be in Mr. Doran’s possession early next week. I know this is not compliant with our agreement. We certainly will accept any financial penalty Mr. Doran feels is appropriate.”

  Jevon put the point of his knife under Mason’s chin and pressed, standing him up from the stuffed armchair.

  “Please don’t do this,” Sorensen begged. Dunn stared at the fire. “There is no need for anyone to get hurt. We are paying the money we owe a week late. We expect to pay a lot more as we continue our business arrangement with Mr. Doran into the New Year. He knows the Dario Group is a reliable profit center. We have a solid history. Please, Mr. Jevon, do not hurt this man. He’s done nothing to you or Mr. Doran.”

  With the knife under Mason’s chin, Jevon walked him to the edge of the sofa. If Mason hesitated anywhere along the way, the knife would have sunk into his neck and sliced open his jugular. Mason would bleed to death in less than a minute.

  At the sofa, Jevon lowered his knife and pushed Mason down next to Dunn. He leaned into his face. “I ain’t killed nobody for a week. I don’t like you.”

  “I beg you to stop,” Sorensen said. “We are business partners. We have never had a problem before. My husband died. I am taking over all business matters he managed for the Dario Group. Please work with us. We are in transition, that’s all.”

  Margaret’s eyes narrowed and her tone hardened. “I hope nothing bad happens here tonight, nothing that could stop the substantial flow of cash from the Dario Group to Mr. Doran. I do not think Mr. Doran would be pleased to lose a million dollars in annual revenue.”

  “You threatenin’ me, ole’ lady?” Jevon exploded.

  “I’m educating you on the extent and magnitude of an error. Failure to recognize it could be costly to Mr. Doran, and could change your future.”

  Jevon jumped to the window. “Did you see that, Andre’?” He leaned and looked both ways. “I saw somethin’ go by this window and it was not a brother. It was a big white guy.”

  “I don’t see nothin’ out there,” Andre’ muttered. “A tree branch full of snow hit the window. Damn sure ain’t no white guy.” They kept looking. Mason and Dunn kept staring at the fire. Sorensen stared at her primary problem—Jevon.

  “What will it take for you to leave us alone?” she asked.

  “We not here to negotiate,” Jevon said.

  “Why did you come?”

  “We here to terminate our relationship,” Jevon said with an odd smile.

  “What are you talking—?”

  Before she could finish her sentence, Jevon threw his knife across the room. Dunn and Mason did not move. Sorensen turned to the sofa in confusion—the aggressive action did not make sense. A log dropped and sizzled in the bed of hot coals. Where was Jevon’s knife?

  Mason leaned forward. He had something to say. When he opened his mouth, blood streamed from his lips and down his chest. The fire popped and new light filled the room. They saw the handle of Jevon’s knife in the center of Mason’s chest. His eyes fluttered like he came upon a swarm of gnats.

  Mason turned to Dunn. “I’m dying, Charlie.”

  Dunn reached for his friend, but Mason stopped his hand. “No. It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt. I don’t hurt. I’m not scared, Charlie.” He blinked and spit more blood. “I miss Susan so much, Charlie. I need to go to her now. It’s okay. It’s—”

  Mason fell back on the sofa. His eyes rolled into his head. His arms relaxed and hands opened on his knees as life left him. Mason died in seconds. His shirt filled with warm blood until his heart stopped pumping. Charlie and Margaret sat in shock. Then it registered.

  “You miserable bastard,” Dunn yelled as he struggled to get up from the sofa. But Andre’ had an eye on the other old man. The clenched fist moved through the dark room like a hundred-pound log swinging on a rope. It found Dunn’s face. Dunn collapsed—out cold or dead.

  Sorensen watched Jevon and the twisted smile cross the room. He pulled the knife from Mason’s chest and wiped the blade on the arm of the sofa. “Where my boys Deke and Liddell?” he asked as if he had just come for a visit. “They been out there long enough.” Sliding the knife back into his belt he turned to the fire. “Go get ’em, Andre’—ain’t nobody goin’ nowhere.”

  Andre’ left through the kitchen. When the backdoor closed, she started to work on Jevon. “You killed a good man, a much better man than you could ever be.” She wiped her eyes and tried to slow her breathing and heart rate. “I don’t know why you would be so mean. Mr. Mason did nothing to you. None of us did anything to you. We did business with Mr. Doran, that’s all. You’re a sick person. You’re nothing but a miserable animal. I pray to God that when you die it is with great pain.”

  “You think you better than me, don’t ya ole’ lady?” Jevon said.

  “I do not have any idea what you are talking about,” she said. “I don’t kill innocent people for the fun of it. I don’t revel in anyone’s death. You killed a man for no reason. You enjoyed watching him leave this world. You are a sick person who needs to be put down.”

  “You the sick one, ole’ lady. You kill people, too. You think you got better reasons than me to kill?” He looked over at Mason’s corpse. “It was time for him to pay for killin’ people. Nobody allowed to kill, not even you. No. We ain’t different, old lady—you an animal, too.”

  Margaret glanced down at the unfinished pot holder hanging from the top of her knitting bag and realized she would never finish it. She also realized Jevon had it right—she was an animal. She had people killed. In the end, her reasons were no more important than the twisted reasons of any killer. Her final minutes of life had arrived and she cringed as the truth washed over her. What she thought mattered was evil all along.

  “Andre’ must be runnin’ ’round in the snow, too. Maybe found some beer or somethin’ out there.” Jevon returned to the ice covered window and leaned close to the cold glass panes looking for anything that moved. But the white in the night was flying in too many directions to make out anything.

  “I’m supposed to kill all of ya and get back to Detroit tonight,” he mumbled into the glass window. “One of ya is dead—I know ’cause I stuck him good. I think Andre’ killed the other old guy. I ain’t no doctor, but he ain’t been movin’ for a long time. That’s dead in my book.” Jevon studied the ice crystals on the window panes. “Ain’t no more Dario Group people ’round here. That leaves me and you, ole’ lady. I can take my time; have a little fun on a cold night before we all get back to Detroit.”

  Her hea
rt crawled into her throat. She gagged on the thought of being touched and then butchered by Jevon. Her new reality continued to close in around her. She would die by the hand of a real monster, the single terror she most feared in her life, and the very reason she joined Jacques in creating the Dario Group.

  When Jevon put his hand on the glass, the bloody hulk crashed into the window. Jevon fell back pulling his knife. He watched Deke’s bloody face slide down the crystalized glass, eyes opened wide, and his head undulated like an over-filled water balloon. When Deke’s face reached the window ledge, it stopped below a ghastly trail of frozen blood and brains. Jevon stared and squeezed his knife.

  “Looks like we’re not alone,” Margaret whispered. “Maybe you’re going to die tonight, Mr. Jevon. Maybe all of you are going to die tonight for what you’ve done. Did you really think killing members of the Dario Group would be that easy?”

  “Shut up, ole’ woman,” he said as he pulled out the derringer and backed into the dark shadows of the dining room to think.

  The body crashed through the window and landed on the dining room table. Jevon jumped back and flattened against the wall. He shot his only two bullets into the night. Now, the shattered glass, splintered wood, and snow filled the room. Jevon stared at the hole in the wall with his knife ready. He would throw it at anything that moved. It was his only talent—he could put a butcher knife in the center of a quarter at twenty feet.

  “Go ahead and look at your dead friend, Mr. Jevon. Which one is on my table?” Sorensen pushed. “Is it Liddell? Probably. I don’t think they could throw Andre’ the Giant through the window like that.”

  Jevon ignored her. She wasn’t going anywhere, and he had bigger problems. Someone out there killed Deke and Liddell, Jevon thought. I still got Andre’ somewhere. He’s a smart guy. He wouldn’t walk into no trap. Yeah. Maybe he be waitin’ for me to make my move.