First he checked Google News, looking for the keywords Lucy + serial killer. But he only found the old stories. Nothing new.
Then he switched from a news search to a web search, and checked the same terms for the past week. Gradually he expanded the search to include new words. Hitchhike. Drag behind car. Lemon juice. Female killer. Escaped female serial killer. Luther Kite.
He winced when he typed in that last term. While Donaldson had nothing in particular against a fellow practitioner of the psychopathic arts, Lucy’s fascination with Kite, and the possibility that she might be with him at that very moment, rankled the older man.
Lucy belonged to Donaldson. Not Kite. They were destined to spend the rest of their wretched, pain-filled lives together. The only thing that kept Donaldson from jumping off a bridge and ending his unbearable existence was the thought that Lucy was out there, somewhere.
But after more than a year of searching, Donaldson had gotten nowhere. No leads to her whereabouts. No clues to where she’d gone. His long trek to Arizona had been the result of drifting aimlessly, and he was no closer to finding her than he was when he’d been released from the hospital over eighteen months ago.
He closed his eyes and pictured her face. Before, when she was young and pretty. Then after, when she’d been scarred as badly as he’d been.
Strangely, Donaldson wasn’t sure which of her looks he preferred.
He typed in a few more terms—a slow process because of his missing fingers—and came up with nothing. His stomach made an unhappy sound, and Donaldson tried to remember where the nearest food pantry or shelter was so he could get some free food. How ironic was that? Once he’d been an alpha predator, taking whatever he wanted. Now he was forced to rely on the charity of those he once preyed upon. Donaldson had caused much misery, and now endured it every waking moment.
It was almost enough to make a guy believe in karma.
He was about ready to leave, working up the nerve to painfully heave himself out of his seat, when nostalgia got the best of him and kept him rooted. Searching now on Google Images, Donaldson looked for pictures of Lucy’s old handiwork. Once again he typed in dragged behind car and made sure that safe search wasn’t activated so he could revel in the explicit gore.
He saw old photos of many of Lucy’s previous victims. The blood, the open wounds, the frozen expressions of pain even after death. They stirred sexual feelings in Donaldson that he was no longer physically equipped to deal with. He tried to lick what remained of his lips, but what remained of his tongue was too dry. He flipped from one carnage-filled pic to the next, his breath coming faster. These atrocities had all been before he’d met Lucy, but Donaldson had viewed them so often over the past months they gave him a feeling of reminiscence.
He clicked through the familiar images, lingering on a particularly oozy one, and then saw a new photo that made his cold heart throb. The photo was smaller than the others, because instead of a regular jpg it was a screen capture off YouTube. On it, a mostly-skinned man was being dragged by chains around his wrists. The caption read, “Dragged to death in Mexico”.
Donaldson immediately went to YouTube to search for the video, and when he found it he was treated to the musical shrieks of some unlucky fellow who was being towed behind an old pick-up truck down a stretch of highway, leaving a red streak on the pavement behind him. The black bars on either side of the screen, which made the image look like a long rectangle, were familiar to Donaldson. Someone had captured this video with their cell phone.
The footage only lasted about forty seconds, and it was shaky and blurry and not nearly as up close and personal as Donaldson would have liked, but when it ended Donaldson felt a jolt as surely as if he’d been hit with a crowbar.
The last few seconds of video, the driver of the truck got out and began hacking at the man with a curved knife.
And the woman…
She was squirting him with a spray bottle.
The man was gaunt, pale, with stringy black hair.
The woman was younger, scarred, and it appeared that she only had one eye.
Hands shaking, Donaldson watched the video again, pausing it at appropriate spots. Each time he paused, he printed the screen. Once on the blurry license plate. Once on the white road sign in the background. Once on the blurred faces of the man and woman.
Then he hauled himself out of his chair and limped to the reception desk.
“I printed out three pictures,” he told the librarian, who was busy on her computer.
“Color or black and white?” she asked without looking up.
“Color.”
“Forty cents each. That’s $1.20.”
Donaldson rummaged his front pockets for change and found a quarter, two dimes, and his last Vicodin.
“I only have forty-five cents.”
“Then I’m sorry, but you can only have one print out.”
Donaldson popped the vike into his mouth, even though it was covered in fuzz. He leaned forward on the woman’s desk.
“I need those pictures.”
“You need seventy-five more cents.”
Donaldson glanced at the stapler within reach, imagined beating the woman over the head with it and then stapling her lips to her gums followed by chiseling out her teeth and dragging barbed wire across her gums.
“How about a discount, this one time?” he asked, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “For the disabled?”
Now she finally looked at him, and Donaldson watched her eyes go wide.
“Oh my god,” she whispered.
“I was tortured,” he told her, truthfully. “It went on for hours. Lips snipped away with scissors. My chin filed down with a rasp. See how many fingers I have left? I have even fewer toes. I have to piss through a tube, and even though it has been years since it happened, I still piss blood.” He leaned in closer. “Now how about you show a little compassion, you fucking whore, and give me the print outs before I whip out my tube and piss blood all over your snotty, goddamn face.”
The librarian handed over the pictures.
“Thanks.” Donaldson winked at the librarian. “Have a nice day.”
JACK
Washington DC
After landing at Dulles we cabbed it, and got to the diner an hour before our scheduled meeting, McGlade wearing a wide smile on his unshaven face.
“The girls and I go way back,” he said. “Whoever it is, she’ll be happy to see me.”
I let Harry labor under that delusion. It was easier than arguing with him.
It was pleasantly cool inside when we entered the restaurant, a stereotypical egg and coffee shop in downtown DC, half filled with customers. Chandler—I think it was Chandler—was already sitting at a table, a piece of half-eaten carrot cake on a plate in front of her. Her hair had been dyed dirty blond, cut in a bob. She was younger than me by at least fifteen years, about my height, but slimmer and with much more muscle definition. Her Lycra top was so tight I could see her six-pack. I could also see the bulge in her jean jacket where she carried her gun.
“Chandler, right?” McGlade said. “I know you’re not Fleming, unless Jesus came down and performed a miracle so you could walk again.”
“Maybe I’m Hammett,” she said.
“If you were Hammett, you’d be sucking my face right now. Because, as you recall, I rocked that box. Did she mention me?”
Chandler held her blank expression. “She said you were smaller, and quicker, than average.”
“So she mentioned me?” Harry beamed. “Awesome!”
McGlade sat down and began to yell for the server to bring coffee. I held out my hand and shook Chandler’s.
“Fleming says hello,” Chandler said, tapping her earpiece.
“Hello back,” I told her. “How have you both been?”
Chandler didn’t answer. She wasn’t much for small talk.
“A year and a half ago I ran into a serial killer named Luther Kite,” I began. “He got away, and is
a threat to society, and to my family. I believe my husband, Phin, went to Mexico to find him. That was two days ago. He hasn’t returned my calls.”
“Phin knows you know, and turned off his phone so you wouldn’t follow him.”
“That’s my guess.”
“And you want to follow him anyway.”
“Phin is competent. But Luther is different than what he’s used to dealing with.”
“He’s like your sister, Hammett,” Harry said. “Crazypants McButtnutspants.”
“Who’s the target?” Chandler asked. “Phin, or Luther?”
“Phin.”
“And if we come across Luther?”
“We contact the authorities and he gets arrested.” I leaned in. “Understood?”
If that didn’t sit well with the former government assassin, she didn’t show it. “Where in Mexico?”
“A writer named Katie Glente found a video of Luther dragging a man to death behind his car. It’s the MO of another killer he’s with, a girl named Lucy. The video was taken near Mexicali.”
“I know someone from Mexico. He’s on a job now, but I can call him for intel.” She stood up. “Fleming and I will meet you in Mexicali the day after tomorrow.”
“How do I get in touch with you?”
“You don’t,” Chandler said, heading for the door.
“Couldn’t we have done this over the phone?” I asked.
“Fleming said the carrot cake was good,” Chandler said over her shoulder. “This was an excuse to try it. See you in a few days.”
“Later, babe,” McGlade called after her. “Tell Fleming if she gets bored with the wheelchair, she can ride me around.”
I tapped my fingers on the table top, a nervous habit. “That was… interesting.”
Harry speared at the remainder of Chandler’s cake with his fork, cutting himself a big piece and shoving it in his cake hole. “Spies are nuts. Maybe all that espionage and subterfuge has finally destroyed Chandler’s brain. A two hour flight for a one minute meeting. At least I was in first class, not in coach with you and the lesbian writer. How can you stand coach?”
“You booked us in coach, McGlade. Then upgraded yourself.”
McGlade ate more cake. “I know. Coach is unbearable. No room to spread out or get comfortable. Plus you’re sitting next to all of those other, not-rich people. Easy way to catch a disease. Do you know I once caught syphilis from a toilet seat?”
“So stop having sex with toilet seats.”
“Funny. I’ll think of you on our plane ride home, while you’re cramped in coach stuck sitting next to Fat Guy McBodyOdorPants and I’m reclining and getting free martinis.”
I kept tapping the table, lost in thought. My worries were piling up. I couldn’t stop thinking of Phin. I had an urge to call Mom, check how Samantha was doing. And I hadn’t let on how much it hurt me that Herb wasn’t along for this one. Add in concerns about Katie, and now Chandler, and I was borderline neurotic, which wasn’t the best mental state when hunting serial killers.
“Yeah, spies are crazy,” McGlade said. He often continued with conversations after others had moved on. “Or maybe that’s just Chandler. You can tell that chick had some serious shit happen to her in the past.”
“Hasn’t everyone?”
Harry studied his prosthetic hand. “I guess. But some of us deal with it by killing people, and some deal by trying to have as much sex as possible, bonus points if it’s free. Speaking of, did you check out Chandler’s body? Nice and tight. I bet she could dry hump the skin off an apple.”
“Thanks for that mental image.”
“She’s got those Olympic ice skater legs. I’d strap her on like a feed bag.”
“And that one. Remind me again why we’re partners.”
“You were desperate, and I’m uncommonly generous. It’s my giving nature.”
“Right now you’re giving me a headache.”
“Want to go tour the White House? For old time’s sake?”
“No.”
“Want to hear about the sex I had with Hammett?”
“No.”
“Want to—”
“No.”
The coffee came. I sipped some. It was sour.
“Should I call Katie, tell her to meet us here?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
Katie was at an art gallery up the street. We’d dropped her off there because I wasn’t sure how Chandler would react to meeting someone new. I’d only encountered Chandler a few times, and couldn’t claim to know very much about her, either her personal life or her professional one, but she didn’t seem to have any qualms when it came to murder. While Chandler had good reasons to be paranoid, I didn’t want her snapping Katie’s neck if Katie said the wrong thing.
McGlade managed to invite Katie to join us for lunch in the most derogatory, insulting way possible, then said something rude to our waitress that was practically a guarantee she’d spit in our food.
“You know Chandler will kill Luther, and Lucy, on sight, right?” he said, eating more cake.
It was possible, and I wasn’t sure what I would do if she tried. Years ago, I’d sworn to protect and serve, and had taken the Law Enforcement Oath of Honor to uphold the Constitution. That meant due process for criminals, even the worst ones.
But I wasn’t a cop anymore. And I was getting a fulltime stiff neck, constantly looking over my shoulder waiting for Luther and friends to sneak up on me.
“Luther is going to jail, Harry.”
“Phin didn’t go after him to arrest him, Jack.”
“I know.”
“And you just enlisted the help of someone who used to snuff people for Uncle Sam.”
“I know.”
“And you aren’t exactly a Girl Scout yourself.”
“I know all of this, McGlade. But this is a rescue mission. Not an assassination. I’m not a killer.”
Harry swallowed more cake. “And what if Luther has done something to Phin?”
I sipped sour coffee and hoped I wouldn’t ever have to answer that question.
PHIN
Somewhere in Mexico
Someone slapped Phin awake, and for a moment he wasn’t sure where he was.
The memories came back, accompanied by pain. His ribs ached. His head hurt. His cheek stung from the waking blow. He remembered the attack on the street, passing out under the pile of bodies, and then…
Nothing.
He blinked, feeling dopey, realizing they must have drugged him. When he tried to move, he discovered he was naked with his hands cuffed behind him, his ankles chained to the legs of a steel chair. Phin looked up at the man who hit him.
For a moment, Phin thought the guy was wearing a Halloween mask. Then he realized it was his actual face. Gaunt and sunken. Horribly scarred. Eyes black and dull as a shark’s. Long, mangy black hair.
Luther Kite.
And standing next to him, just as scarred, missing an eye and stooped over, his Bride of Frankenstein, Lucy.
Phin hid his surprise. While he’d been hoping to find them both, he’d also hoped for more favorable circumstances when that happened.
In Luther’s hand was Phin’s notebook, and Phin reasoned that’s what he’d been slapped with, because Luther didn’t appear strong enough to hurt with a bare-handed blow.
“Are you with the police?” Luther asked. His voice had a timbre, like a rattle was caught in his throat.
Phin glanced at the stainless steel table next to him. On it were pliers, scalpels, a blow torch. He knew how this would play out. If he stayed silent, he’d be tortured. If he told the truth, he’d be tortured, and also put Jack and Samantha at risk.
He focused on the story he needed to stick to, rather than the pain that was coming. His best bet was a mixture of the truth, with lies. If he could get Luther to believe him, at least Phin’s family would be safe.
“No. I’m here for you, Luther. You and Lucy.”
Luther’s lips twitched sligh
tly. He glanced at Lucy, and she shrugged.
“Who are you?”
“Duffy,” he said, using the name on his fake ID. It was an alias he wouldn’t forget. The name of a pet, plus the name of the town he was born. “Duffy Hanover. You killed my cousin.” Phin let his anger show. “You and your ugly bitch here dragged him behind your car.”
“Is that so?” Luther’s expression remained impassive, but that might have been because he had limited control of his facial muscles. “So why were you staking out my drug operation?”
Phin didn’t understand the question, but quickly put it together. Luther wasn’t saying he bought drugs. He was saying he dealt drugs. Somehow this human skeleton had wound up working for a Mexican cartel.
“I asked around. You two are pretty distinctive. Found one of your dealers, figured I’d watch until a new supply was dropped off, then follow him to you.”
“Asked around? Whom, exactly, did you ask?”
Luther was no longer looking at Phin. He was looking at the tools on the stainless steel table.
“Your pusher. The one who wears Hugo Boss. I flashed him your picture, he said you ran the syrup market.”
“And where did you get my picture?”
“YouTube,” Phin said.
Luther looked at Lucy. She said, “It’s a website, you can upload videos.”
“I know what it is,” Luther said. He turned back to Phin. “What video?”
“You and your girlfriend dragging some other poor bastard behind his car.”
Luther drew a finger over his misshapen nose. “And how did you link that video to us?”
“It’s called the Internet, asshole. Ask Google. That’s Lucy’s thing, isn’t it? Dragging people? And it’s not like either of you would be hard to pick out of a line-up.”
Luther’s eyes seemed to drill right into Phin’s skull and expose his thoughts. Phin focused on how much he hated this guy.
“What was your cousin’s name?” Luther finally asked after their stare down.
Phin went with something easy to remember. His middle name, and a street he lived on.
Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 10) Page 8
