by Graham Smith
I park at the mall and walk along Main Street until I arrive at the butcher’s.
The shop is crowded, so I stand in line and pass the time eyeing up some of the steaks. I plan to grab a couple of fillets on my way out.
A young server with a face full of spots finishes serving a soccer mom and turns to me. ‘Hi – can I help you?’
‘I’d like a word with Terrel Upson.’
‘Sorry, he’s out of town for a few days.’
My interest level in Upson spikes to a new high. ‘Where’s he gone? When did he go?’
‘I don’t know.’ He waves a hand towards a door. ‘One of the guys in the back might though.’
I gesture towards the doorway and lift an eyebrow. He nods, his focus already on the next person in line.
Walking through the doorway, I find three men hard at work with meat cleavers, knives and the odd hacksaw. Two are cutting up sides of beef while the third has half a pig on his table. A ferrous smell hangs in the air from the blood. All three guys are dressed in white overalls with stained aprons covering their fronts.
All three have faces I’ve seen around before, but I can’t say for sure if I’ve ever spoken to any of them.
I have to raise my voice over the latest irritating jingle from KMDZ. ‘Guys, have you a minute to answer a few questions?’
‘What’s it worth?’
The speaker is a slim man with a buzz cut and a Texan accent. His drawl reminds me of movies hammier than the pig he is butchering.
‘Twenty bucks apiece.’
I have no qualms about loosening tongues with a few greenbacks. In this instance our client is more than wealthy enough to cover incidentals like the odd twenty bucks.
‘Make it thirty.’
Tex shoots a furious look at the speaker, a drawn man with long hair bundled into a ponytail tucked into the back of his overalls.
‘I think Jonno meant a hundred.’ His grin shows me ten reasons why he should visit an orthodontist. ‘Each.’
‘Fifty.’
‘Ninety.’
‘Fifty.’
I’m not trying to reduce Old Man Niemeyer’s bill, that doesn’t bother me at all. I am arguing the price down because of my inherent Scottishness and a desire to assume control of the situation. Tex is the kind of man who’ll try and dominate me and steer the conversation his way unless I rein him in from the start.
‘I said ninety.’
‘And I said fifty.’ I make sure the edge in my voice is sharper than the one in his. ‘Take it or leave it. I can always find someone else to answer my questions.’
‘Hey, no need to get so het up. I was just foolin’ with ya. Fifty’s cool.’ Tex gives a forced laugh and looks first at his buddies then me to see if we are laughing too.
They have wary smiles, but I keep my face implacable.
‘Where’s Terrel Upson?’
‘He’s gone to see his folks in Seattle.’ It is the third man who answers. He scratches at his bald head as he talks. ‘Apparently his mom’s not well.’
‘When did he go?’
Again it is the third guy who speaks. ‘Wednesday morning. I dropped him at the airport before coming here.’
That means Upson had left town before Kira had been murdered. Or at least found. I make a mental note to find out if Emily has established a time of death.
‘Do you guys remember him dating Kira Niemeyer?’
‘Sure. He was one lucky son of a bitch to be nailing her. Right, guys?’ Again Tex laughs and looks towards his perceived audience.
The third man ignores Tex’s insensitive behaviour. ‘Yeah, I remember. They dated for a while earlier this year. Terrel was pretty cut up when she broke it off.’
‘Was he?’ I address the question to the third man as he seems to be the most willing to help.
‘Yeah. His face was tripping him for weeks afterwards.’ He gives an exasperated shake of his head. ‘Dumb really. There was no way it was going to last. He was just a bit of rough for a rich little daddy’s girl. Sooner or later she’d have been married off to someone her father approved of. She never even took him to meet her family.’
There in a nutshell is the reason I was so relaxed about hooking up with Kira. Our respective social statuses would always prevent a long-term relationship. Her family would expect to marry her off to the son of some millionaire or other who had the necessary breeding and the right Ivy League education.
In her own way, Kira had rebelled far beyond anyone’s expectations. What intrigued me was the way she had kept her rebellion from her family. Upson, Lester and I all fell into the unsuitable boyfriend category, yet none of us had been paraded in front of her parents. In the same vein, she’d kept her hooking a secret from everyone.
I need to discuss this with Alfonse and maybe Dr Edwards.
Bringing my attention back to the issue at hand, I look at the third man.
‘Why did she break it off?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Didn’t or wouldn’t?’
‘Hey man. When a dude tells you he’s been dumped you don’t ask why. You buy him a beer and tell him he’s better off without her.’
He’s right. That’s exactly what happens. Alfonse and I have done it many a time.
Sensing there is nothing else to learn, I get Upson’s cell number from the third man and reach for my wallet.
Tex eyes the notes with open greed.
‘Yeah, boys. Easiest payday we’ve ever had.’
Tex’s laugh and look combination grate on me so I decide to default on our deal. At least as far as he is concerned.
‘Here.’ I hand the third man a hundred bucks as he was the one who’d answered my questions. Ponytail got the agreed fifty. A crumpled twenty is all I give Tex.
‘You said fifty.’
I hold my fist in front of his eyes and fill my voice with menace. ‘If you speak to me like that again you’ll end up paying your dentist hundreds. Do I make myself understood?’
I walk out while he decides whether or not to make an issue of it.
The spotty-faced youth is poking at one of his zits, so I reconsider my dinner plans. Perhaps a takeout will be healthier.
Climbing back into the Mustang, I see the folder Alfonse had given me last night. In it are a number of printouts from Kira’s journal.
I’ve delayed reading them as long as possible, afraid of how stupid and helpless I’ll feel. Afraid my blood will boil hot enough to have me seeking a vengeance that doesn’t belong to me.
28
The Watcher arranges the scarf around Evie Starr’s neck and checks about one last time.
This is a perfect way and location for her to be left. The scarf covers the incision made by his scalpel. Taking care, he folds her arms and rests her chin on her chest, making her look as if she’s fallen asleep while admiring the view.
The traces of stiffness in her body aren’t strong enough to prevent him from setting her just how he wants her. He’d feared rigor mortis would thwart his attempts to seat her on the bench but her cancer-ravaged body has little muscle to solidify. Draining her blood has helped.
With her in position, he lifts the handles of the wheelbarrow he’s used to transport her from the car. He pushes it into the bushes and trees of a small archipelago jutting into the reservoir. Reaching the water’s edge, he heaves the wheelbarrow into the still water and starts to make his way back to the bush where he’s stashed his ghillie suit and observation gear.
The bush will make an ideal vantage point, which is why he’s chosen it. From underneath its thorny boughs he can watch both the bench and the parking area at the end of the bay.
All he has to do now is wait. And watch.
Soon the next stage of the pattern will begin and he’ll be able to identify his next victim.
The Watcher knows the net is closing on him. Jake Boulder turning up today has taught him that.
The homicides being the subject of an investigation is only to be expecte
d. That Boulder and his buddy Devereaux have been hired doesn’t come as any kind of surprise – everybody in Casperton is aware just how ineffective Farrage and his team are.
Now he’s accelerated his killing, it is only a matter of time before the bigger guns of the FBI are brought in. Their presence will limit his chances to continue, but he plans to keep going until they catch him.
Once arrested he’ll be stopped, but the authorities have nothing they can threaten him with. The nurse has already sentenced him to death with her laziness.
Her ignorance has robbed the law enforcers of their greatest deterrent. By the time he is arrested and a trial date set there is every chance he’ll be dead.
His greatest concern is being stopped before reaching the kind of numbers that will ensure his name goes down in history. With the police as inept as they are, there is little threat from them, but Boulder and Devereaux will bear watching. He knows their diligent attention to detail and intelligence is far superior to any of the town’s detectives.
A teenage couple walk into view. Hand in hand, they laugh and joke with each other as they move towards the bench. The guy leans into the girl and kisses her cheek.
She takes a playful swipe at him, then moves her head so they can have a proper kiss.
When they break apart, the Watcher sees the girl point at the bench. He hears their whoops and laughter abate as they show respect to the elderly woman on the bench.
A new possibility springs into the Watcher’s mind, causing him to stifle a shout of joy.
He watches as the teens walk towards the bench. With every step they take he releases a prayer they will realise the woman’s slumber is of the permanent variety.
If they do, the possibilities for him will become endless.
29
I curse at the message on my cell and put down the papers I’ve been reading. Of all the times to receive a summons from my mother, this is the worst.
Inept with technology at the best of times, Mother has never gotten the hang of messaging via a cell phone.
Trying to explain to her why texting in capitals is akin to shouting is like trying to educate a tiger on the benefits of a vegan diet.
To her the fact she is perceived as shouting is a good thing. She once told me ‘People react quicker to a shout than a whisper’.
While she’s a loving mother, she is still hard to handle. Now she doesn’t have to work or guard every penny, she fights boredom by having a social circle of women in a similar position.
Neither wealthy nor poor, the group has given her the friends she didn’t have time for in Glasgow. When not raising money for one charity or another, they shop, lunch or just interfere in the lives of their families.
Several times I have received one of Mother’s summonses, only to have one of her friend’s daughters ‘drop in’ while I was there.
There have been many arguments ending in a stalemate. She is left with the knowledge grandchildren won’t be along soon and I’m made to feel inconsiderate and selfish.
Still, despite everything, she is my mother and I love her. The text I’ve received has an urgency, beyond the shouting capitals, which makes it impossible to ignore or defer until later.
I enter her house via the side door. Finding nobody around, I am helping myself to a coffee when a loud voice rings out.
‘Jacob Boulder. Get yer scrawny arse in here right now.’
This isn’t good. Not only has she Sunday named me, the Glaswegian accent she’s worked so hard to lose is as strong as I’ve ever heard it.
I follow her voice to the lounge, where I find her sitting in her usual seat. Instead of being reclined in front of the fifty-inch TV, it is upright and facing the kitchen door.
Mother is even more upright than the chair. Her posture indicates a mixture of anger and worry, the crow’s feet on her face transformed into deep furrows.
‘Sit.’ The sole word is a command not an invitation.
I am getting spooked now. Mother deals with life’s blows in a matter-of-fact way. Drawing from her incredible reserves of inner strength, she tends to meet challenges head on and beats them through sheer force of will.
Combined, her posture, summons and accent tell me she is facing something she doesn’t believe she can conquer.
‘What’s up? Are you okay?’ I hate the concern in my voice but I can’t stop its presence.
‘I’m fine. It’s you who’s ill.’
‘Me?’ I start to laugh as relief courses through my body. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘There bloody well must be. Otherwise you wouldna be chasing after thon killer.’
To hear Mother swear is a rarity. Only in times of consternation or extreme sorrow will she permit a strong curse to pass her lips. Her accent has returned not just to Glasgow, but direct to the Govan estate where she’d spent her life before moving to Casperton. In her current state of agitation she looks and sounds just like my grandmother. In the interests of family harmony I don’t inform her of the fact.
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘Is it no’? Explain it then. Stop an auld woman from worrying about her only son. Stop her fretting that the only chance she’s got o’ becoming a granny is hell bent on getting his sel’ killed.’
‘Enough!’ I raise my voice enough to shock her into silence. I need to stop her nonsense before she gathers a head of steam. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick altogether. You may even have the wrong stick.’
There is no point denying my search for Kira’s killer as she’s obviously heard who hired Alfonse and me.
‘Don’t you be raising your voice at me, young man.’ A knobbly finger points at me. ‘C’mon then. Tell me which stick I should have a hold of and which end.’
I try to play down my involvement as her concerns aren’t groundless. ‘Kira Niemeyer’s father hired Alfonse to look into her death. I’m helping out, that’s all.’
‘So it’s no’ just your own life you’re risking, you’re also putting the life of the best friend you e’er had in danger too.’
This is impossible; once she has an idea in her head it’s easier to move a sleeping elephant than convince her she’s wrong.
‘Settle down. We’re looking into a few leads and are working in full cooperation with the police. If we find a suspect, we’ll hand them over to the police and keep well out of it. We’re not stupid, so don’t treat me as if we are.’
‘So now you’re working with the police. Brilliant. Don’t they have guns?’ A liver-spotted hand slaps her forehead. ‘Of course they do. What have you got? Let me tell you what you’ve got. You’ve a reputation as a hard man, who fights for the fun o’ it. Tell me, Mr Don’t-You-Worry, what do you think this killer is going to do if you happen to confront him? Or get too close to him?’
I don’t have an answer for her. At least not one that will give her the reassurance she craves.
‘Don’t just sit there like a big stookie. Tell me you’re gonna stop this nonsense right away.’
I have to fight to keep my tone reasonable. Raising my voice to her levels will only result in a shouting match that benefits nobody. ‘I’m not going to stop anything. I’ll make sure I don’t put myself in danger, but there’s no way I’m going to stop.’
What I don’t say is that finding Kira’s killer has become personal. If she learns about Kira’s obsession with me she’ll start proclaiming it’s all my fault and that I’ll be the next to be killed.
‘I knew you’d say that. You’ve always been the same, Jake. You’re as stubborn as your bloody father. I’ve lost count of the times you’ve cut yer nose off to spite yer face. You never know when to back off and let it go.’
Try as you might, there’s very little you can hide about your nature from your mother. Mine knows me better than any other human alive and has enough about her to look at me with honesty. To see the real me.
I smile to try and diffuse her anger. A little flattery goes a long way with her. �
�I’m just like my mother. I have all her best qualities.’
‘Aye. An’ you’ve got a lot of bad ones from your faither.’ She isn’t smiling back but I can tell she’s softening.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not stupid enough to tackle a killer.’
‘Perhaps not. But you’ve got the MacDonald temper on you. What I’m afraid of is you getting yourself into a situation you can’t fight your way out of.’ She holds a hand out to forestall my protests. ‘That’s why I’m giving you this.’
She opens the handbag on the table to her left and pulls out a gun, which she proffers to me.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’m making sure you have the means to look after yoursel’. You’re too pig-headed to listen to me, so I’m giving you this so you can get yourself out of the trouble I know you’re going to attract.’
‘Here.’ I give her the gun back. ‘I don’t know the first thing about guns. Beyond an air rifle I’ve never held one let alone pulled a trigger. I’ll be more likely to shoot myself than anyone else.’
She pushes her hands into her lap and leaves me standing with my arm outstretched. ‘Don’t be a fool, Jake. You don’t have to be a good shot. You might not even have to fire it. The idea is you have it so you can protect yourself. I don’t want you to go to jail any more than I want you to get hurt.’
I bring my hand back; the gun still rests in my palm. I give it a proper look for the first time – see the name Ruger. It looks small in my hand. Taking care not to point it at my mother, I try holding it properly. It is lighter than I expect a gun to be and despite looking small, it’s a good fit for my hand.
‘There’s a safety catch where your thumb is. I suggest you go out into the hills somewhere and fire a few shots, familiarise yourself with it.’
That’s the only thing she’s said to me today that I may pay attention to.
Her hand dips into the handbag and re-emerges holding two clips and a belt holster. ‘You’re allowed to carry it as long as it’s unloaded and not concealed.’
‘What about a permit?’ I am showing my ignorance, but guns have never held any thrall for me, therefore I’ve never bothered to find out about them.
