by Stacy Green
“All right,” I said. “I’m pretty sure you’re delusional, but since you’re cute, I’ll have a drink with you.”
He pulled out a chair. I sat. I honestly never imagined this moment happening. Not under these circumstances. Arrested, hauled in for questioning, accidentally spilling the cyanide on myself–those thoughts crossed my mind every day. But never a random, good-looking stranger in a bar who may or may not be a cop flat out calling me on the act.
I took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of greasy bar food and warm bodies. Anxiety rippled in my chest, but I buried it. “What’s your name?”
“I’m not a cop.” His face was still friendly, but his gaze keen. I’ve never seen eyes so blue–or so perceptive. I instantly disliked them. He gauged my every move, no doubt measuring my body language just as I was his. He was probably counting my pulse considering the vein in my neck throbbed big enough half the bar could see.
“Good for you. So what should I call you?”
“My name’s Chris, and you can call me an interested party.” The response bordered on arrogance. My temper flared. I didn’t like being backed into a corner. The absurd idea of flinging the poison on him and running like hell flashed through my mind until I remembered I’d just flushed the cyanide. I nearly laughed, but his raised eyebrow sucked any mirth right out of my spirit. I tried to play it cool. He already had enough of an upper hand. But how did he know? Had Conner, the chemist who provided the cyanide, said something? Had Kelly charmed the wrong online predator?
“What are you interested in?” Thankfully the drone of the bar noise hid the shakiness in my voice.
“You. It’s not often I find someone who’s like me.”
“Like you?”
“In the same line of work.”
I said nothing.
“I don’t like to use the popular name for it.” He leaned over the table, into my space. His eyes burned even brighter up close. In another scenario, I would have matched his body language, flirted a little. A woman should always seize the opportunity to get up close and personal with a face like his. Unless he’s a stalker with the power to send her to the lethal injection chamber. “You know, serial killer. The term is so … trendy. I like to call myself the garbage man. Just taking out the trash.”
Of all the presumptuous, stupid things to say. I wasn’t a serial killer, and I had no interest in aiding this man’s sick fantasies. “I don’t know who you are–”
“Name’s Chris Hale. I’m a paramedic and an Aries. I love Indian food. Italian, too. And Mexican. Pretty much all food. I’ve got a major sweet tooth. Never done drugs, I’m an only child. I’ll spare you the sob story. Anything else?” He smiled again, the lines around his eyes crinkling in a ruggedly attractive way that probably made plenty of women act foolish.
“Good for you. But you’re way off about me. I’d guess it’s delusion talking. And if you’re thinking this game will get me into bed, I’m sorry, but I don’t go home with guys I meet at the bar.”
He laughed, throaty and packed with self-assurance. “Please, life’s too short to dance around the truth. Let’s be real. You were going to play drunk, dump that demon on the guy, and walk out of the bar. He’s gone thirty minutes later. Not original, but very good methodology.”
The walls closed in like a trash compactor. I felt trapped like a rat. I gritted my teeth and volleyed back. “You might want to seek a psych evaluation. There’s a good free clinic not too far from here.”
“The Iceman.” Chris ignored the bait. “That’s your inspiration, right? The mob hit man who lost count at 200 murders. His method was easy and anonymous. He spilled the bad stuff, his mark got angry about it but didn’t do anything about the wet shirt or pants. The goods seeped through the mark’s skin and twenty to thirty minutes later, into the bloodstream, and the Iceman was long gone. It’s brilliant, really. Great choice, for cold weather anyway, considering the health hazards. I just hope you’re more than a hit man. Woman, excuse me.”
My chest tightened into an iron cast, and my jaw ached from the hard set. If this guy knew the routine, he no doubt had proof. “Seriously, have you ever thought about seeking professional help?”
He ignored me and kept rambling. “Like I said, I’m a paramedic. And I’m observant. I saw you at a scene a few months back. You were standing to the side, in the middle of the onlookers. But something on your face gave you away–to me, at least. Guess I’m good at spotting my own kind.” He rested his chin on his hand and gazed at me with obvious admiration. To anyone else, we probably looked like we were on a first date and still stuck in the awkward getting-to-know-you stage.
“I’m not your kind.” He was nothing like me. I was just sick and tired of seeing a broken justice system routinely fail children who’ve already been treated like disposable playthings. So I did everything I could to balance the creaking scales of justice–the same scales many people want to believe are designed to protect the vulnerable in society. But those scales don’t shield anyone, even our most innocent victims. Their function is to balance the lines of bureaucracy.
Sometimes I have to fill the void.
He probably picked his victims at random and took them somewhere to torture them before finally killing them. If he was actually a serial killer.
“Your marks aren’t good people,” he continued as though I hadn’t denied him. “I know because I’ve been tailing you for a while. And I watch the news, managed to put two and two together. Kiddie diddlers, which is another nice choice, by the way. Scum of the earth for sure. Me, I’m not that selective. Long as they’ve maimed or killed, I’m willing to get rid of the trash.” He smiled again, and I was alarmed at how genuine he seemed. And his good looks were becoming an annoyance. “I gotta ask, though. The cyanide, that’s tricky stuff. Not the easiest way to kill someone. Untraceable unless a medical examiner is looking for it, yeah. But aren’t you afraid of spilling it on yourself? Or is sudden death not an issue for you?”
My throat constricted, my scalp felt clammy and hot. I was terrified of death, and the irony that I’ve given myself the right to administer it without question hasn’t escaped me. Death was a finality I could only fully comprehend in the dark of my bedroom, when I was on the cusp of sleep. Like an electric shock, it hit me with the force of a thousand wits. It’s the end. There’s no blackness, no tunnel, no sinking into oblivion. It’s literally nothing. And it’s the nothingness, the utter finality of ceasing to exist that scared me to the point of sitting up in my bed, gasping for air and covering my ears as if somehow that would stop my brain from dredging up the horrific reality.
I couldn’t think about that right now. I focused on Chris’s smirking face.
“Why are you bothering me?” How did I miss this man following me? He was the kind who drew attention everywhere he went.
“I admire your work. Thought maybe we could talk shop.”
“There’s no shop to discuss.” And we don’t do the same kind of work. I did it because it needed to be done. I wasn’t a killer. Not in the real sense of the word. I filled a much needed void in the most efficient way possible. I had to believe that, especially now. Even if he did claim to understand the need to get rid of pedophiles, his brazenness was repulsive.
He shrugged. “I’m a sociopath.”
“Well, good for you, Chris Hale.” Apparently this was the sort of man I attracted now. I reached for my purse. “I truly hope we don’t meet again. Good looks don’t cover your brand of crazy.”
“Come on.” His grin was part hypnotic, part dangerous. “I’m not the only one who knows your secret. You’ve got help.”
Fresh panic set in. Did he know about Kelly and Conner? No way could he have found their identities just by following me. I had to draw a line in the bar dust right now. He wasn’t going to bring them down too. “Excuse me? Are there more people out there suffering from your delusion?”
His twisted smirk made it clear he enjoyed my seeping panic. “There’s no way you�
��re doing this on your own. Maybe you’re computer savvy, but I’d bet you have help getting the information. Not to mention the poison. You can’t just buy that stuff at the pharmacy. So you don’t work alone, and I do. But I’m willing to make an exception for you.” He finally took a sip of the club soda he’d been fondling. Dingy bar lights reflected off the sliding ice as he drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his eyes always on me.
“I’m leaving now.”
He set the glass down. “Suit yourself. I think we could learn a lot from each other.”
“No offense, but I really don’t want to know any more about you,” I said. “I just want to pretend this never happened.”
Chris dug his wallet out of his pocket and tossed it across the table. “There. Look through it. Take my driver’s license information. Look me up.”
Now I was certain he needed the psychiatric evaluation. “Are you crazy? Besides, this could be fake.”
“Except it’s not. And you can easily confirm that.”
I stood up and slipped on my coat. My insides burned with panic, and my brain felt sluggish. I needed to get away from Chris, into the fresh air. Figure out what to do next.
Chris scribbled something down on his napkin and then slid it over to me. A phone number. I put it in my purse. I’d throw it out later.
He stood and stretched. His shirt hiked up enough for me to see the muscles of his abdomen. I looked away only to see the women at the next table trying to check him out without being noticeable. “It was nice meeting you, Lucy.”
“You know my name.”
“I’m observant. I’ll be looking forward to your phone call.” He flashed me one last annoyingly captivating smile and then disappeared into the crowd.
My phone call? I wasn’t about to get into any sort of partnership with some guy who crawled out of Chetter’s woodwork, even if he turned out to be exactly what he said he was. Especially if he turned out that way. With him out of sight, some of the tension in my muscles evaporated. I leaned against the wall trying not to throw up. Life has tossed me curveballs for as long as I could remember, and I was good at lobbing them out of the way with ease. Cops I could deal with. Angry family members, parents who feel they’ve failed their child because they didn’t realize the kid was being molested–those situations I could handle. I knew when to fight and when to walk away and save the battle for next time. When I finally accepted our justice system wasn’t black and white and decided to strike out on my own, I prepared myself for the inevitable day I was caught for my decisions.
But Chris Hale was an entirely different monster, and I had no idea what to do with him.
3
Sleep eluded me most of the night. Instead of dreams of falling into the black void of death, every time I closed my eyes, Chris Hale’s face danced in my memory. He was unpredictable, and that sort of person is always the most dangerous. How long had he been following me? And why? More importantly, how did I miss him? So much for being self-aware.
Dawn cracked through my blinds, and I imagined the city beginning to wake up. Windows glowed with life, hopefully with happy families starting their day, and furnaces vented out tufts of white smoke that looked like swelled clouds. The thought made me feel peaceful. A rare emotion.
Since my first eradication of a sex offender eighteen months ago, I’d accepted that one day I’d likely be caught. With every scumbag I silenced–five in all, as of now–a dozen new scenarios of my own judgment day raced through my head, dramatic and filled with chaos. None of them included being approached by a man like Chris Hale.
A warm, chubby body pressed against my shoulders, flicking its tail in my face. Mousecop, the fat tiger cat I’d rescued a few months ago, needed sustenance. Meaning he could see a spot on the bottom of his food bowl, which somehow translated to starving in cat-speak.
I rolled out of bed, and Mousecop immediately rubbed against my side, purring loudly. I scratched between his ears, and his green eyes glowed with appreciation.
“Somebody knows our secret, Mousey,” I said. “What am I going to do?”
He blinked and then rubbed his head against my hand, demanding more skritches.
“I wish my problems were solved with food and scratches.”
I spent the morning catching up on paperwork and cleaning my small apartment. I’d only been working as a private investigator for a year, but because of my background in social work, I’d built up a solid network and already had a nice client base. I wasn’t making big bucks, but I paid the bills.
By late afternoon, my eyes were glazed over from dealing with emails and billing. I rubbed my temples, contemplating taking a nap. My phone buzzed, and Kelly, the hacker who made my business run, popped up on the screen. Hopefully she had some information about Chris Hale.
If he’d been telling the truth about his motive, he was going to be a lot tougher to deal with than an old-fashioned blackmail. Not to mention lying about being a sociopath. I didn’t believe that for a minute, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t because I couldn’t believe someone so attractive could be terrible. I’d been around enough to know looks mean exactly squat. My instinct about Chris went beyond common misconception and into the realm of something I couldn’t explain yet.
I swiped the screen expecting to see Kelly’s information on Chris, but instead her words sent a cold rush of paralyzing fear through me. My body turned liquid, sagging down the chair as if it were ready to turn into a pool of shuddering mush. I’d been expecting this for months, resolved to it the same way a person accepts the diagnosis of a loved one’s terminal cancer, but this was worse than I’d envisioned. Every parent’s nightmare.
“8 yr old girl missing in Beckett’s area. Stop by asap. -K”
Kelly lived on Eighteenth Street, near Rittenhouse Square, in a tiny studio that was never warm enough. Parking down here sucked, and I ended up five blocks away and jetting through the open air park. Rittenhouse is one of my favorite places in Philadelphia. While high rises are scattered throughout the area, the side streets boast historical brownstones, and during the summer, there’s no better place for outside seating than at one of the many cafés. Usually when I come to visit Kelly, I make a stop at Di Bruno Brothers, home of the best gourmet cheese in the city. Tonight I didn’t have the stomach for it.
Even at night on a brisk October evening, minglers were scattered in the park. A couple walking a purebred dog that probably cost more than my high-tech mattress glared at me as I rushed by. A group of teenagers had taken up residence on the corner and were holding some sort of impromptu break dancing contest, their music beating out the sound of traffic. I rushed past their party and into Kelly’s building, using the code she’d entrusted me with. She answered after my first knock.
“You must have run half a dozen red lights to get here this fast.” Kelly locked the door behind me.
I admired her new haircut, very short, which showed off the angular planes of her face and accentuated her doe-like eyes. “When did you get your hair done?”
“Friday.” She smiled, both of us acknowledging the small victory. Seven years ago, she sat shaking and terrified in my office, resistant to any kind of unfamiliar contact. It took me three weeks to break through her walls, and I started the process with very small cracks.
“I almost didn’t go through with it,” Kelly said. “The last time I tried going that far from my apartment, I had a panic attack and almost passed out. But I made it.”
“I’m proud of you.” She’d come so damned far over the past couple of years.
“Are the new anxiety meds working?”
“I think so. I slept for three hours straight last night. That’s an improvement.”
“I’m glad.” I couldn’t delay the dirty business of our meeting any longer. “When did the little girl go missing?”
“About six hours ago,” Kelly said. “I heard it on the scanner.” Most consultants were required to work in a secured area of the station, but Kelly was given an excepti
on due to her skills and PTSD. Her visits to the precincts were sporadic, but her connections were my inside ticket.
“School released early today for a teacher workday. She was supposed to walk home with a group of kids, but she never showed up,” Kelly said. “They didn’t realize it until they were halfway home. One kid told her mom, and she called the police. Luce, she lives in the apartments across the street from Justin Beckett’s duplex.”
Justin Beckett. My legs weakened, and I grabbed Kelly’s arm before remembering the girl was still sensitive about touching. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Come sit down.”
I followed Kelly to her office. Two large monitors were hooked up to a powerful desktop, and a partially built computer occupied most of the extra desk. Her gait was light, her lithe hips swaying as though she were dancing to her own soundtrack.
Kelly’s emotional growth had been so stunted sometimes she still seemed like a confused adolescent. I longed for the day when she felt secure enough to engage in a normal activity, like dating or even going to the movie theater with me. I supposed that was too much exposure, considering the way her stepfather had treated her.
“So, Justin Beckett,” Kelly said. “What don’t I know about him?”
I really didn’t want to go back to these painful memories, but Kelly needed to know the whole story in order to do her job. I took a deep breath. “Not much. Ten years ago, Justin Beckett was one of my first cases as a newly minted social worker. Back then, I still believed I could change the world and that no amount of horrors would be too much for me to bear. Then I met the Becketts.” I hesitated, afraid this might hurt Kelly, but she nodded for me to continue.
“A neighbor called CPS after hearing fighting from the house on numerous occasions. I was sent to investigate and found eleven-year-old Justin and his seventeen-year-old brother, Todd, who was in charge while the parents worked.” I still remembered the stale smell of the house, the way Justin’s small form shrank away whenever my attention turned to him. I stood up and walked to the small window. Below, the breakdancers were still going strong.
