Michael Palmer

by The Last Surgeon

  “Do you like what you see?” he asked the blonde.

  The girl nodded and smiled with artificial shyness.

  “Can’t you speak, bitch?” Koller snapped.

  “Darlene can speak just fine,” Sandy said.

  Koller crossed the room and kissed the tall, dark woman hard on the lips. Then he drew her hand down to help him become aroused.

  “Did I ask for your opinion?” he said suddenly, grabbing her by the hair, but focusing on the other whore. “Did I?”

  “No, baby,” Sandy said, “you didn’t ask me nothin’.”

  “That’s right, I didn’t,” Koller said sweetly, releasing her. “Okay, listen up, ladies. The game is simple. I pay, you do. Sort of like Simon Says. You do what Simon says and the night is going to be very much fun. Mess up and fun will be a little more elusive. Either way, I promise you one thing; our evening’s going to be memorable. Isn’t that right, Sandy?”

  “Simon ain’t never hurt me bad, Darlene, honey. An’ we been friends a long time now. Besides, whatever happens, he’ll make it worth your while.”

  Sandy peeled away her knockoff Burberry trench coat, revealing only a black bra and panties. At Koller’s request, she had on her stiletto high heels as well. The killer savored her long, toned legs, flat stomach, and sensual dark skin. In front of the closed drapes, Darlene held her own coat tightly across her slender frame. Sandy moved to where she was standing.

  “Darlene, sweetie, you ain’t got nothing to worry about, ya hear?” she whispered.

  “He scares me,” the blonde whispered back, but not quietly enough.

  Koller heard her.

  He grabbed her by the arm, hard enough to make her cry out in pain. Then he threw her onto the bed, as if he were tossing a pillow. The woman’s overcoat flopped open, revealing, per instructions, only a garter belt and mesh stockings. Her breasts would need implants in a few years, he thought, but at the moment, they were schoolgirl perfect. Now it was time to see just what she was made of.

  Koller was becoming more aroused. He sat down on the mattress next to Darlene and began to stroke the woman’s fine, straw blond pubic hair, shaved in a landing-strip style.

  “Sandy, baby,” he said, “you go into the closet and grab my black canvas bag and bring it to me. Don’t open it, though. I got surprises inside.”

  Koller kept his eyes locked on Darlene. Her fear was easy to see. He could feel his pulse slowing.

  Sandy returned, carrying the black canvas bag, and climbed onto the bed behind Koller. She placed her hands upon his shoulders and began to massage him, rubbing her long, delicate fingers down and across his bare chest, teasing his nipples. Darlene gazed up at them, unable to keep her body from shivering as though she’d just been pulled from a river.

  “Whatchu freakin’ about, girl?” Sandy snapped. “Take off your stockings and let’s do our job.”

  “Hold on a second, love,” Koller said. “Give me the bag.”

  Koller took the bag from her as he got up off the bed, then brought it to the small desk and opened it while keeping his back to the bed. From inside he withdrew four Velcro restraints. Turning, he showed the women. Darlene’s eyes widened, but Sandy just giggled. Koller strode back over to the bed, now with a full erection. His eyes were a wolf’s, locked on Darlene. The girl was beginning to hyperventilate. He checked his wrist for five seconds.

  Fifty. Maybe forty-seven.

  “Straddle her,” Koller commanded Sandy.

  Then he reached beneath the bed and pulled up a length of nylon rope he had earlier tied to the frame.

  “Sandy . . . you didn’t say . . . anything about . . . ropes,” Darlene managed.

  “Take it easy on her, baby,” Sandy cooed to Koller. “Remember, she’s sort of new at all this.”

  With his hand wrapped firmly around Darlene’s neck, Koller bound the teen’s wrist with the Velcro and tied the restraint to the cord. In seconds, he had repeated the maneuver with her other wrist and both ankles. The knots were impossible to undo without help. Koller nodded Sandy away, then he stroked the girl’s breasts until her nipples responded almost in spite of themselves. The horror he saw in her eyes was blessedly pure, almost palpable.

  Forty-five.

  “If you scream, you’re going to die,” Koller whispered, his lips brushing her ear. “Don’t you dare move. Do you understand me?”

  “Sandy, help me.”

  Koller raised a finger to keep Sandy from responding.

  “I asked if you understood.”

  “Y-yes. I understand.”

  The master of the non-kill pulled a fifth length of rope from beneath the mattress at the head of the bed, then knotted it firmly about the teen’s neck. Finally, he opened the black bag once more and withdrew a bowie knife with a nine-and-a-half-inch blade, a pair of large pliers, and three brown glass bottles, which he held up to the lamp to ensure they were full of whatever liquid they contained.

  Finally, he rose and moved to his laptop computer. His erection was now fully tumescent, and his demeanor magnificently calm.

  Koller could see Darlene’s reflection in the three-foot mirror hanging above the desk. He watched unblinking as she tested the ropes. Her sobs and strangled breathing were a symphony to him. He checked his radial pulse again.

  An even forty.

  Alpha state.

  The young whore had served her purpose.

  He was ready to write.

  He motioned Sandy down between his legs and made only the faintest murmur of pleasure when she took him in her mouth. Koller never averted his eyes from the mirror and the reflection of Darlene’s terrified, tear-streaked face.

  Opening a graphic file he had stored on his laptop, Koller ran a picture of the wooden nutcracker through his encryption program. His software, named Demaratus for the Spartan king known for his innovative use of steganography, was coded to his exacting specifications by some of the most powerful minds in computer cryptology. The application electronically prompted him to type his message. He no longer felt the compulsion to reprimand Jericho for its unacceptable behavior. He was far too relaxed for that. Instead he wrote:

  You broke the rules of engagement . . . mistakes will not be tolerated . . . the consequence is a new bid . . . post now . . . this is nonnegotiable.

  The words, he knew, were perfect—dispassionate, but accommodating. His demands would be met. Any alternative, as Jericho was well aware, was unacceptable. Jericho would comply or find someone else, and when it came to orchestrating murder that appeared to be due to accident, natural causes, or suicide, there was Franz Koller, and there was everyone else.

  Koller saved his message and instantly the image of the nutcracker reappeared where seconds ago his words had been. To decrypt the message required the matching key—a version of Demaratus that was customized for each client. Using his eBay account name, ChemLuv56, Koller posted the nutcracker for bid. Jericho was instantly alerted that a message from the assassin was awaiting a reply.

  Five minutes passed. Sandy worked vigorously to bring Koller to climax, while Darlene had acquiesced to her mattress prison. A message alert bubble popped up on the Dell laptop screen. GuvnerPoppins, the code name he assigned to Jericho, had listed a new item for bid. Koller clicked on the link and opened up an auction page on eBay. The item listed, containing Jericho’s response, was a Stanley hammer and some nails. The irony of the chosen products was not lost on him.

  The genius of his communication protocol was that every auction was authentic. Somebody would eventually be the highest bidder for the hammer and nails. It would then be shipped to the winner from a blind post office box.

  Simple.

  Koller downloaded the image and ran it through his decryption program. The return message read simply: Understood. Then Koller, bidding as ChemLuv56, made an offer for the hammer of $1.50. He smiled after placing it. He had just upped the fee for his next non-kill by half a million dollars. He doubted Jericho would make such a mistake again.
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  Koller pushed Sandy’s head back, freeing himself from her mouth.

  “Don’t you want me to finish, baby?”

  “No,” Koller said. “I have some business to attend to.”

  He moved to the bedside and hefted the huge bowie knife in his hand.

  “No!” Darlene rasped, the rope constricting her vocal cords. “Please, no!”

  Sandy made a move forward, but Koller stopped her with a wave of the knife. Then, with his erection even larger than when Sandy had been performing fellatio on him, he straddled the blonde and with four perfectly placed strokes, severed the ropes.

  Finally, he kissed each whore on the forehead and stepped back from the bed.

  “Simon says, go home,” he said.

  CHAPTER 14

  Second Chance was asleep on the love seat in the study in his favorite position—on his back, with all four spindly legs pointing straight up at the ceiling. Nick had showered, dressed, and shaved, and was ready for the night’s rounds in the RV, but mentally he was still scouring the city streets for Manny Ferris.

  Initially, the possible breakthrough in his search for Umberto had dropped his SUD score to a rare two: A little bit upset, but not noticeable unless you took care to pay attention to your feelings, and then realize, “yes” there is something bothering me. Now, frustration had pushed his number up to a five.

  Posters had been taken down, and maps of Washington, D.C., and Baltimore covered a good portion of the floors and walls of the study. In two days of dedicated searching, he had canvassed all of the most unsavory neighborhoods, back alleys, flophouses, and cardboard villages where Manny Ferris might be found. Dotting his maps were carefully placed color-coded pins, each representing a city street that needed to be searched again. He used a highlighter to trace the miles of pavement he covered, questioning every store clerk, loitering kid, and homeless person along the way. Nothing. Ferris was either the most determined hermit in the world or, in the four years since making his big announcement to Matt McBean, he had traveled on.

  But to where?

  Detective Don Reese had fared no better, even though he had given up his fishing trip to search.

  “Manny Ferris is not in D.C.,” was his terse conclusion.

  That was when the bounce in Nick’s mood had leveled off and begun to slip. To his dismay, the Department of Veterans Affairs was as tight about disclosing last known addresses of their vets as it was about paying out PTSD benefit claims. They would not even comment on the status of the Marine.

  Nick respected the agency’s commitment to safeguarding personal information, given the PR fiasco and millions paid in damages after several highly publicized thefts of classified laptop computers. Even so, to keep vets from finding each other, when friends from combat might be crucial to a soldier’s or sailor’s well-being, seemed irrationally protective.

  For some reason, Nick could not shake the feeling that Manny Ferris was alive. In a spiral-bound notebook, he kept a detailed log of every call he made to chief medical examiner offices in major East Coast cities, as well as to morgues in D.C., Virginia, Delaware, and Maryland. There were two instances of recorded death certificates for Manuel Ferris, one for a man in his eighties, the other a nineteen-year-old killed in Iraq. He even paid fifty dollars to a Web site purported to be a favorite among private investigators. The site searched newspaper articles and a multitude of court records, including incarcerations and name changes, but it was wasted effort.

  Nick checked the time. He and Junie would be on the road in thirty minutes. He peered out at the pink-and-gold-cast sky, wondering if such sunsets would ever feel anything but empty to him.

  The ever-present curse of PTSD was that everything reminded him of something he had lost—his bed of a restful night’s sleep, the sun of his fiancée, the maps on the wall of his missing friend. Feeling another episode of melancholy coming on, Nick closed his eyes and balled his hands into tight fists, but relaxed them when he heard his front door open.

  “Come in, it’s open,” he called out as Junie was halfway down the hall.

  Chance, perhaps knowing the woman represented no possibility of play, remained in his upside-down-table position.

  Junie entered the room, her broad smile fading the moment she saw Nick.

  “Goodness, love, I guess I’m just stating the obvious, but you look like hell.”

  “Thanks for the compliment. I checked myself in the mirror and thought at worst I looked like heck.”

  The nurse spent a moment studying the maps tacked to the walls.

  “That’s a lot of walking you’ve done in two days,” she said.

  “Say, maybe, just maybe, that’s why my feet are killing me. You know, Junie, truth is I didn’t even consider not being able to find Manny Ferris. It’s all a bit disheartening.”

  “It hurts me to see you so discouraged. I admire your dedication to finding out what happened to Umberto, but maybe it’s time to let it rest.”

  “The man saved my life. I owe it to him.”

  “You owe it to yourself to live your life to the fullest, too.”

  “Well, maybe finding Umberto will let me do that.”

  “I’m worried you’re chasing ghosts, Nick.”

  “What if he’s not a ghost?”

  “Then we better find him fast.”

  “We?”

  Junie nodded and placed a comforting hand on Nick’s shoulder.

  “The night you learned about Manny Ferris, I don’t think I’ve seen you so happy in all the time I’ve known you. I don’t want to go on watching you suffer the way you have been. If finding our friend Umberto is going to take you even one step closer to health and happiness, I want to do everything I can to make it happen.”

  “Thank you, Junie. You’re doing that. I honestly believe Manny Ferris and Umberto are connected. I’ve searched every street corner, morgue, and veteran’s organization from here to Detroit, but I’m going to keep at it.”

  “Well, I know one person we haven’t used who might help you.”

  “Oh, and who’s that?”

  “Reggie.”

  “Our Reggie? My football buddy Reggie? You-can’t-ride-the-RV-if-you-don’t-finish-your-homework Reggie?”

  “The same. I promise that if anyone can help you find your Manny Ferris, he can.”

  CHAPTER 15

  With each stroke of his spoon-shaped paddle, Franz Koller felt a million and a half richer. What other job could he even think of where he could make so much money for doing something that he loved so much? Whatever this newest windfall of steady business was all about, he’d take it, no questions asked.

  Maybe he’d buy another house.

  Koller ignored the spray as he powered through three-foot swells, kicked up by a steady offshore breeze. The spray skirt kept the boat from flooding, and practice with the ocean kayak he kept at his estate near Panama City, Florida, had made him expert at steering with the foot-controlled rudder system. He would have preferred to work in less blustery conditions, but the fog, now beginning to blanket the iron-colored sea, provided additional cover he could not resist.

  The rolling Chesapeake swells aside, Koller was delighted to be on the hunt again. Executing a non-kill was far more rewarding than executing a lesson plan. He was certified to teach in a number of states under a number of names. In past years, the profession had been tolerable, and occasionally even stimulating. If it weren’t for being such an effective cover with flexible working hours, he wouldn’t spend another minute trying to educate the insipid brats.

  Unless Dr. Tightass, as Koller had come to think of the anesthesiologist whose life he was about to terminate, broke with his routine, he would be entering the water at the end of Parker Avenue within the next ten minutes. Koller had put in his own seventeen-foot, carbon-colored Looksha two miles to the south. He had bought the touring kayak in a mammoth sporting goods store outside of Newport, and later that night had slept with the salesgirl who had sold it to him. Life was goo
d.

  Rowing the extra mile to intersect the doctor’s track was a precaution the killer had no trouble taking. It was best if the man believed he was alone on the water until the very end. Once the body was recovered, and once the time of death was established, there would be nothing suspicious for anyone to report to the police. Of course, that presumed there would even be a police investigation of any depth. But Koller knew there wouldn’t be. Details and working through minutiae were at the core of the non-kill.

  Even with the rough conditions, Koller was barely breathing heavily when he reached the eastern side of the Alexander Ledge Lighthouse. The wonder of adrenaline, he thought. Grabbing hold of the rusted ladder, which ran halfway up the ninety-seven-foot-high granite tower, he checked the time. Despite the chop, he had still made it four minutes faster than the best of his three trial runs.

  Details.

  In another twenty minutes, anesthesiologist Dr. Thomas Landrew would complete his early morning paddle out to the ledge.

  “One mile to dead time, Doc,” Koller said, checking his GPS and savoring the air, which was salty, but not as much so as at the ocean end of the largest estuary in the country.

  He had shadowed Landrew for several days, deciding on the best way to dispatch him following the precepts of the non-kill. Early each morning, even when it was raining, Koller watched as the man embarked from the Parker Avenue put-in and paddled out to the lighthouse and back. The physician was fifty-seven, but his body could have been fifteen years younger than that.

  The rigidity surrounding the man’s schedule was impressive. He rowed, then left for work at precisely the same time each day, and made a leisurely walkabout of his substantial property each evening when he returned home. The non-kill at its best required using a target’s weakness against him . . . or her. It was Landrew’s obsessiveness about time that would be his undoing.