The Avenger

by Jo Robertson

  "Son of a bitch," Slater said.

  "You sick excuse for a man," Jack snarled. "You drugged women, lured them to your apartment, and Randolph watched while you had sex with them."

  While blood roared in Jack's ears, hot and heavy, Slater's deep baritone sounded calm. "Just who is this Dr. Randolph? Where can we find him?"

  "I don't know where he lives, somewhere south of here. He's a hella rich dude, lives in a big mansion or something." Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, Burrows dropped the other shoe.

  "Maybe Dr. Gant knows. Randy shares an office at the university with her."

  Chapter Twenty-six

  For a moment Howard Randolph forgot where he was. Forgot about the blowsy blonde who lay beside him on the stained sheets of a two-bit motel in a run-down section of West Sacramento.

  He stared at the thick, dark fluid on his hands. Splattered on his naked torso. He raised his eyes to the mirror across the room and the face that looked back was speckled with drops of gore and something else. Bits of flesh? He dropped his eyes to his fists, scraped and bloody.

  The woman from the bar had bedeviled him, spun a spell around his civilized brain that unleashed the basest part of him. He could think of no other explanation.

  His eyes skipped down to his shriveled penis.

  If she hadn't giggled…

  Hurriedly, he showered and wiped down everything he'd touched – the headboard, the dresser, the stained sink in the bathroom where the toilet had run throughout the entire episode. He gathered his clothes and tossed one last look around the room. The whore's pulpy face mocked him from her position on the bed.

  She shouldn't have laughed.

  He performed a few deep breathing exercises, calmed himself, and eased out of the room. Nothing but a speed bump in the road. A short foray into the randy enticements of a low-born slut wasn't his fault and he wouldn't allow it to sidetrack him.

  The drive south of Sacramento to his isolated, three-story home offered plenty of time for him to finalize his plan. When he arrived, he destroyed every trace of his sacrifices, all evidence of his punishments. The furnace in the basement of the stone mansion roared for a long time with the flames of his deeds.

  His decision to eliminate everything calmed him further, made him feel untouchable again. As peace washed over him, he poured a glass of Pinot Noir and relaxed in the den. He hadn't felt such serenity since the first time, over four years ago. A girl, he remembered. She was one of the many who broke their vows of chastity and fidelity.

  After he'd dug the shallow grave and placed her body in it, the vein at her neck still pulsating with life, he'd experienced a satisfaction he'd never known before, the greatest tranquility. He knew he'd taken the first step on his Path, the first rung on the ladder of his holy mission.

  He'd ignored the thundering arousal the experience brought.

  The answer to his current dilemma was so simple he wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Only one obstacle thwarted his chosen Path, only one person stood in the way between mortality and transfiguration. Olivia Gant.

  She'd plagued him from the beginning, he now realized. With her sensuous body and her come-hither looks, she'd wanted nothing more than to seduce him. Desired nothing less than complete capitulation from him. He'd thought her cute, innocent, harmless. Virginal, even.

  And he'd held her at bay for several months. But no more. In a flash of revelation, he understood that Olivia was meant to be his final sacrifice. His greatest offering.

  *

  The deputies escorted Burrows to his jail cell while Slater dug in to find out everything they could about Dr. Howard Randolph. Torres, whose computer skills were much better than anyone else's, pitched in to help. The only thing she muttered while hunched over the keyboard was "Damn, I really liked Vargas for this."

  Apparently Diego Vargas and his henchman Santos had crossed the southern border on an unexpected trip to Mexico. "I'll get the bastard sooner or later," Torres said.

  Jack left the precinct while she cross-referenced the university's school calendar over the past five years against the dates for the deaths of the first five victims. Jack knew his own time was better used another way. Tracking.

  Finding a timeline for the deaths and referencing that against the professor's leaves of absence or sabbaticals, or hell, just plain sick days made no difference to Jack.

  He knew what he knew.

  Although he had no hard evidence to persuade a skeptical district attorney, his infallible instinct told him they'd found the Dead Language Killer. Not Bill Gant, not Diego Vargas, but Howard Randolph. Let Slater and Torres check for alibis and addresses. Let them find the probable cause necessary for a judge to sign an arrest warrant. Let them get a search warrant and tear Randolph's house apart to find enough evidence for Barrington to bring charges.

  Jack had a better plan.

  Since he'd been in California, he'd gradually altered the drug dosage Invictus had tailored for him. He believed that was why he'd been able to control the Change around Olivia even while his mind and body wracked with the animal's need to hunt. Now was the time to unleash the beast. Olivia was safe. The quarry had fled, but the beast would find him.

  First, a double-dose of the red pills to increase the primordial state. Then, hopefully, the blue pills to promote the necessary visions to track the killer back to his den. A man capable of what Randolph had done wouldn't be trapped by ordinary police procedure and written records. The secret to his dark fantasies lay in a distorted mind and twisted psyche. And that's where Jack intended to go.

  Into the monster's mind.

  Now that Olivia was safe, he had one less distraction. He wouldn't have to worry about her witnessing the full effect of the Change. The last thing he needed was her watching his transformation when he hunted the killer. Although he'd tried to explain it to her, even he had trouble voicing the degradation and bestiality of it all.

  In Slater's guest house he dragged his briefcase into the kitchen where he took the dosage of red pills along with a glass of orange juice. Fifteen minutes passed. Nothing at first. Then the tiny thrill of an endorphin release in his brain, an ever-so-slight altering of mind and mood. He returned to the kitchen and swallowed several more of the reds and, after a moment's hesitation, a handful of the large blue capsules. After memorizing the layout of the living room, he turned off the lights, opened the drapes, and sat on the sofa. He gazed sightlessly through the window pane out into the dim gloaming of the night.

  Then he waited. And waited some more.

  Minutes passed. Or hours. He had no sense of time or place as his brain accommodated the altered sensory perceptions. The heavy odor of freshly mown lawn wafted to him through the open window. He breathed deeply and steadily.

  The man who occupied his body metamorphosed into another creature as he gave himself over to the vision. Vines wrapped around his legs and their tendrils crept steadfastly upward to his thighs and waist. Something was wrong.

  He jerked at the entangling greenery, but it tightened like sodden leather dried in the sun. Tugging at its vise-like clutch, he finally broke away and ran. Ran faster than the wind, his legs and arms throbbing with the exertion. Bare feet pounding on hard, packed earth, lungs gasping for every breath, he galloped on.

  This was wrong, he thought. He was supposed to be the hunter, not the hunted. He remembered his earlier dream. Was that when it had changed? He stopped abruptly in confusion. All wrong. He'd never felt so… mortal in a vision.

  What the hell was wrong?

  The clanging of his cell phone jarred him awake. He fumbled with the contraption, flipped it open, and barked into the receiver. "What?"

  "Jack?" Slater asked.

  Jack swiped his hand across his brow and pulled his fingers away dripping wet. He was drenched with sweat. His heart raced in his chest, and a blinding, debilitating pain pierced his right eye socket. He coughed and cleared his throat. "Yeah, what's up?"

  "I have
information on Randolph."

  Jack heard the shuffle of papers over the line. He rose, stretched his body, and struggled to shake off the aftereffects of the dream. "What?"

  "Each of the first four murders coincided with a time when Randolph was out of town on school business or holiday."

  "Did you get an address on him?"

  "A little place called Sequoia Falls, south of Sacramento off Highway 99. Torres says matching the dates to Randolph's absences is enough to obtain a search warrant. Deputy Harris and your two agents are getting Judge Davis' signature on a night-time warrant right now."

  Slater paused. "Will that work for you?"

  Hell, Jack didn't care if Slater called out the entire National Guard. Randolph wouldn't be found at his residence. He'd be hiding in some den he'd specifically chosen for this occasion.

  "Sure, check it out and get back to me," Jack said, fidgeting with the phone, wanting to get back to the only productive action. "They might not find evidence at the house, not enough for an arrest warrant."

  "If Randolph's the DLK," Slater mused, "he'll destroy anything incriminating."

  "Yeah, but try anyway."

  After Slater disconnected, Jack slumped on the sofa, his hands dangling between his legs. Randolph's dungeon wouldn't be in Sequoia Falls. It'd be somewhere no reasonable person would think of searching.

  That's why Jack had to track him through a lysergic vision.

  This time he prepared by drinking a huge glass of water to hydrate himself. Then he removed his clothing except for his underwear. He pulled the living room drapes shut so that the room was plunged into absolute darkness. He stretched out on the sofa, his head on the arm rest, his fingers interlaced at the back of his neck.

  The second vision plunged him into immediate chaos.

  *

  Bells chimed in the distance, and Olivia shifted beneath the covers. Damn ringing, go away. Miraculously, it did, and she slipped comfortably into the very realistic dream she'd been enjoying. A dream about Jack's beautiful face hovering…

  This time a buzzing, long and persistent, jarred through the dream. Dragging herself out of a lazy stupor, she sat up, rubbed her eyes, and listened.

  Nothing.

  She'd just decided to lie down, when the clamor started again. Banging this time. Loud, dull pounding as if someone were beating, first with the flat of his hand against a solid object, and then with his fist. Relentlessly, over and over like the monotonous thundering of an entire percussion section in her sleep-addled brain. Damn sleeping pills!

  She felt so lethargic, so tired.

  Fumbling, she reached for the bedside lamp, switched it on, and swung her legs gingerly over the edge of the bed. Her feet seemed to respond to her commands and she padded to the front of Isabella's apartment. Just as she reached the door, the noise stopped. She waited and listened, her ear close to the chain guard.

  Faint breathing on the other side?

  Without warning her rubbery limbs threatened to give out under her and she leaned her head against the smooth coolness of the door. "Who's there?" she croaked, her voice sounding gravelly in the quiet apartment.

  "Dr. Gant? It's Howard Randolph here." A pause. "Olivia? Are you all right?"

  During a second pause, she tried to gather her wits through the foggy veil of the sleeping pills. Tried to concentrate on an ephemeral idea that danced at the back of her mind, a basic instinct of self-preservation. Something about Howard? And the vague mystery of how he knew she was here at ADA Torres' apartment. But her muddled brain wouldn't focus.

  "Olivia," Howard spoke through the door, his voice a low siren's sound.

  She strained to hear him.

  "Bishop Cantrell sent me to check on you. He's very worried. He wanted to make sure you're fully recovered from that awful ordeal."

  The magic words, Bishop Cantrell, the university's chancellor, the Church's representative at Fatima University.

  In reality, her boss.

  Every precaution fell away and catholic obedience born of long conditioning took over even though she hadn't attended a mass in years. Shakily, she unbolted the double locks, leaving the chain in place. She cracked the door, just so Howard could see she was okay.

  An agreeable smile covered the earnest face that peered through the space between the door jamb and the chain's inside hook.

  "Olivia, my dear, we've all been so worried about you."

  An omen, a warning. A picture of a sheep in wolf's clothing.

  She smiled faintly. "As you can see, Howard, I'm fine."

  Doubt crossed his handsome face. "But such an experience. To be kidnapped by your ex-husband… " His voice trailed off. "You need someone looking after you."

  How the hell did Howard know that? Was the gossip mill so fast? She couldn't think clearly with the sleeping pills in her.

  "I'm fine, Howard," she repeated more firmly.

  He gazed speculatively at her, a frown drawing the well shaped brows down. "May I come in? I know it's late, but the Bishop wants to know when you'll return to your classes."

  What time was it anyway?

  He craned his neck, straining to look around her. "And Bishop Cantrell, well you know how he is, expects a full report from me." He smiled disingenuously and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "You wouldn't want me to get in trouble with the Boss, would you?" He grinned and jokingly pointed an index finger straight up.

  The last thing she wanted was Howard intruding. Sharing an office with him was annoyance enough. Another warning flapped in her groggy subconscious, some danger she'd almost forgotten.

  She sighed. On the other hand, the sooner she let him see she was none the worse for her experience, the sooner he'd leave her alone. She leaned against the door and lifted her hand to slide back the chain.

  A weak wave of adrenaline tried to fire up her body.

  Through the tiny crack, Howard wheedled, "We're all concerned about you, my dear."

  Olivia began to unhook the chain as if her fingers had no will of their own. At the exact moment the round ball of the chain hovered between hooked and unhooked, the curtain over her mind lifted and she had a clear, stark image of Howard rummaging through her computer files. How did he find out she was here at Isabella Torres' apartment? Was he stalking her? Had he followed her from the precinct? She remembered him in their shared office, sitting on the edge of her desk, his face solemn and solicitous. She remembered thinking what a phony he was. The idea that this puffed-up, overblown ego of a man could be dangerous was ridiculous.

  But had anyone investigated Howard? Howard, who knew next to nothing about Latin language. An icy sliver of alarm wormed through her blood as the truth of the situation slammed into her.

  Ted Burrows was Howard Randolph's teaching assistant. Ted Burrows taught Howard Randolph's Latin rhetoric class. Ted Burrows was an expert Latin scholar and grammarian. And Howard was not.

  She scrabbled to replace the chain, and for a moment, it swung crazily against the jamb right before Howard forced his weight against the door.

  "You're so very easy to follow, my dear," Howard said with a grin.

  Then she flew backwards into the wall, slid down its rough-textured surface, and felt the hard, cold entry floor rise up to meet her.

  *

  Even through the frenetic prowling in his mind, Jack embraced the Change. The muscles in his body bulged and rippled like those of an animal ready to pounce. His sinews thickened, his pupils constricted to pinpoints beneath his lids, and his nostrils flared with the myriad scents around him as his olfactory neurons activated exponentially.

  No mixed sensory perceptions, but straight-forward sensations – sight, sound, and especially smell, his strongest sense. But he hunted in an unknown tangle of woods that confused the animal in him. He detected three distinct scents that diverged into three different paths.

  He wavered momentarily. All three smells connected to Olivia, but which one involved the killer? He sniffed and held at bay the howli
ng in his throat. To the south the night air was redolent with a man-smell, rank and fetid, but laced with weakness and indecision.

  Not that way.

  Directly northeast lay an enemy, vile, sensually decadent, but ultimately a slinking hyena like the Swahili Fisi that preys on the weak, the helpless, and the dead. A coward.

  Not that way either.

  The western scent beckoned, musty and dank with blood-violence. He started down that path, his padded feet silent on the fecund earth. After several miles at a steady pace, he halted and lifted his nose to the light wind.

  The enemy lugged ahead, five hundred meters or more, traveling awkwardly through the thick woods. Under a heavy burden, he staggered on, flanked by the fetid odor of his malevolence.

  *

  Olivia crawled backwards away from the front door. Her brain jabbered messages, but she was a slug, slow and boneless. A phone, a weapon, something, anything to use against him.

  Get up, move, run!

  But the sleeping pills had slowed her reflexes and she watched in horror as Howard Randolph closed the door behind him and slowly leaned back against it.

  "Olivia, dearest Olivia." He shook his head in mock sadness, a tiny smile on his lips. "Why do you fight the inevitable? Confusa sum."

  I'm confused.

  He loomed over her, bulky and menacing. Why hadn't she noticed before how athletic he was for a man his age? Bookish and affected, he'd seemed like someone's harmless uncle.

  She remembered catching him at her office computer, browsing through her files, and prying around the papers on her desk. She scuttled backward until her shoulders reached a corner where the baseboard dug into her hip.

  Half a dozen clicks tumbled in her head like the fitting together of giant puzzle pieces. This man had access, through her office and computer, to all her personal data. Had used that access deliberately and thoroughly. This man she thought was a respected colleague was…