by Jacob Stone
The killer had angled his chair so it appeared that he was looking out at the ocean while he munched on wood-grilled calamari and sipped a locally brewed pale lager, his sunglasses hiding that he was surreptitiously spying on the Hollywood power couple. While he concentrated to keep his facial muscles relaxed, he had to strain to hear what Stonehedge and Evans were saying because of the bickering couple sitting at the table between him and his target. They were in their sixties and were arguing back and forth over longstanding grievances, and although they did this in low, snippy voices, they caused the killer to lose snatches of the conversation between Stonehedge and Evans. That was unacceptable, especially since the couple was trying to decide where to stay that night: Stonehedge’s Malibu estate, Evans’s Freemont Place home, or even a luxury hotel for the night. The killer hoped it would be Stonehedge’s estate. While the actor had quite a bit of security there, the killer had already found a way in. Evans’s Freemont Place residence, on the other hand, was in a gated community. It wouldn’t be impossible for the killer to break in, but it would be much trickier. Just as it would be if they chose a hotel.
As the older couple’s back-and-forth sniping continued to grate on the killer’s nerves, he found himself fantasizing about making them dominoes in his machine. The problem with that was his plans had been so intricately worked out, it would be nearly impossible to make a major change to them now—even if he had the available time to do so—and it would be utterly ridiculous for him to put his masterpiece at risk over pettiness. Still, as he heard the husband complaining for the fourth time about his wife not taking his side over some idiotic argument he had with her sister, the killer considered more seriously getting their license plate information so he could track them down at a later date. He was still making up his mind about this when the burner phone that he carried rang. Only one person had this number, the maintenance tech from Samson Oil & Gas. The killer frowned as he looked at the caller ID and saw that it was indeed Brad Pettibone calling him.
He answered the phone without saying a word. One could never be too cautious. For all he knew the police had caught Pettibone planting a bomb and were now contacting him with Pettibone’s phone.
“Is this Reuben?”
The killer recognized Pettibone’s voice, and he should’ve felt relief, but he had picked up the disdain in the maintenance tech’s tone. Also, there was no reason that he should’ve been calling. The killer knew something was wrong.
“Yes,” he said.
“We’re changing our deal,” Pettibone said. “You’re going to be at oil well number 18 tonight at midnight, and you’ll bring a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash. Pack it in a suitcase.”
“I don’t think this is wise. It would be much better for us to stick to our original arrangement, and for us not to meet again.”
“You do, huh? Guess what, I don’t care what a freak like you thinks. You be there with the money or I’ll call the police from somewhere in Mexico and let them know where all the bombs are planted.”
“A hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money. You’re not leaving me much time—”
Pettibone hung up. The killer could’ve called him back, but he didn’t see any point in doing so. It was a troubling call, to say the least.
The killer chewed on his thumbnail as he played back the conversation in his mind and tried to make sense of it. He had called Pettibone yesterday after he had ditched the burner phone Brick had called so he could give him the number for his new one, and at the time Pettibone had seemed his previously submissive self. Something must’ve happened afterward.
Of course, the killer knew what it was. Pettibone must’ve recognized him from the police sketches shown on TV last night. Which meant he knew the killer had murdered Heather Brandley and another woman. But why would that upset him so much that he’d call the killer a freak? Pettibone had known what he was after the killer had taken care of that other oil well maintenance tech, Karl Crawford, so Pettibone wouldn’t lose his job. Besides, he had to know people were going to die when those bombs exploded. So why this sudden change? The killer was sure he had sized up Pettibone correctly before. A weak, but also angry, bitter man who wanted to see the world burn. Five months ago he had fully supported the killer’s plans—at least the ones he’d been privy to.
This was bad. The killer had picked up not only disdain, but outright disgust in Pettibone’s voice. Why? Because an actress was killed? The police didn’t even give out any of the gory details! And even if they had, why would something like that bother a man like Pettibone?
Something was wrong.
Even though he would’ve had no reason for doing so, the killer had planned on living up to his end of the deal (and what recourse would Pettibone have if he didn’t? Sue him? Ha!) and transferring fifty thousand dollars to Pettibone’s offshore bank account once all the bombs had been planted. This changed everything. While the killer couldn’t understand what caused this change in Pettibone, he knew the threat was real, and it had to be dealt with. Stonehedge and Evans would have to wait. While not ideal, he still had two more days before he’d absolutely have to grab what would be one of his next dominos, no matter how difficult or dangerous it was.
The killer accepted that Pettibone left him no choice. He had to leave Stonehedge and Evans for another day so he could deal with this new crisis. He had ideas of how he would do this, and he’d get some satisfaction, but the thought of Pettibone calling him a freak brought the taste of bile to his throat.
He stood up and dropped fifty dollars on the table—more than enough to cover his bill. He was about to leave, but instead did an about-face and walked over to the older couple, interrupting their bickering. Both of them looked surprised to see him approach them.
“Excuse me,” the killer said. “Did I see you drive up in a Mercedes coupe? A beautiful car. I wanted to ask how it drove.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” the husband said. “We have the Porsche.”
“My apologies,” the killer said, nodding politely to them.
On his way out, the killer asked the hostess if he could borrow a pen and paper. He wanted to make sure to copy down the license plate for the lone Porsche in the parking lot.
Chapter 33
Short Hills, New Jersey, 1999
“Duh-sage!”
Jason Dorsage’s ears burned red hearing his archnemesis, Simon Witt, yell out the insult from across the ninth-grade classroom. For the last three weeks, he thought they’d had an unspoken truce, but Witt must’ve only been trying to catch him off guard. Jason’s jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles surrounding his mouth began aching. He was determined not to give Witt any satisfaction, and so he continued to scribble plans in his notebook for the contraption he was working on in his father’s basement.
“Duh-duh-sage!”
Jason’s jaw clenched even tighter, making his lips press into thin bloodless lines. He despised Witt with a passion he would never have believed possible even last summer. It was almost comical now that they had been friends two years ago when they were in seventh grade. Back then they liked the same superhero comic books, the same cartoons, the same TV shows, and had a similar outlook on life. In eighth grade, all that changed when Witt out of the blue started making fun of him. At first it had seemed like playful teasing, but soon it became vicious. And then there was the day Jason had fallen asleep in class and woke up gagging, thinking he was going to choke to death on the most bitter, foul tasting stuff imaginable. It turned out Witt had gotten his hands on used coffee grounds and put them in Jason’s mouth. He could’ve killed Witt that day, and from that moment they’d been mortal enemies.
Witt yelled out, “Duh-duh-duh-sage!” This time several other kids in the classroom laughed, which caused Jason’s ears to burn brighter. This insult was new. For a long time now, Witt had been using some variation on Dosage. Such as Dosage of
Dumbness. Or Dosage of Ugly. For his part, he would respond with Simon the Zit. That worked well since Witt had a big red one on his rat-faced cheek. But he wouldn’t be able to use that now since he had broken out himself. He wanted to ignore Witt and just keep working on sketches for his contraption while the class waited for their teacher to arrive, but he just couldn’t swallow down the hate he was feeling for Witt right then.
“Simon the twit,” he spoke out without looking up from his notebook.
That brought some snickering from his fellow classmates, but no real sense of pleasure from Jason. He knew Witt enough to know that the first insult was to lure him into whatever game he had in mind. Sure enough, it didn’t take long for Witt to retaliate.
“Bravo,” Witt said as he clapped his hands. “So clever. Such a brilliant retort. And it only took you a minute and a half to come up with it. One can only wonder at how much brainpower was required for you to think of adding a T to my name. I believe we’ve found our next Mensa candidate.”
More of their fellow students laughed. It wasn’t just Jason’s ears burning now. His cheeks felt like they were on fire. He looked up from his notebook and stared across the room at where Simon Witt was sitting. His archnemesis had a bemused expression as he looked back, his eyebrows arched, his overly ripe red lips twitching.
“Simon the twat then,” he said.
There was a gasp from the doorway, and the class broke into nervous laughter. Jason’s insides turned into an icy mush. He didn’t have to look toward the door to know that their teacher, Ms. Gilligan, had just walked into the room. The victimized look Witt now showed would’ve told him that even if he hadn’t heard her gasp.
“What did I hear you just say, Mr. Dorsage?” she demanded.
“He’s been calling me all sorts of vulgar, hurtful names while we’ve been waiting for you,” Witt said, his way-too-red lips now trembling as if he were fighting to keep from crying.
There was a stony silence, and all Jason could think of was punching Witt in the mouth and bursting those lips open. But he didn’t move. Ms. Gilligan broke the silence by ordering him to the headmaster’s office.
He didn’t bother arguing. It wouldn’t have done any good. Witt had several friends in the class, and they were the only ones who would’ve been willing to speak up; the rest of them smartly didn’t want to get involved. Even if Noah were in the class, he would’ve been too afraid of attracting Witt’s ire to say anything.
Without speaking a word, Jason packed away the notebook in his backpack and left the classroom. He didn’t even bother to acknowledge Ms. Gilligan with a look.
Avery Academy was an elite private school in tony Short Hills, New Jersey. Their graduates often went on to Oxford or Cambridge or one of the Ivy League schools, and eventually became captains of industry or powerbrokers in the financial sector. No presidents yet, but Avery counted several US senators and congressmen among its former students.
Jason had little doubt this was what Witt was after: to manipulate him into yelling something offensive the moment Ms. Gilligan entered the room. He knew this latest infraction might get him suspended, but wasn’t going to get him expelled. But it was one more mark on his record because of Witt, and if Witt successfully kept pushing his buttons, he’d get enough marks so he would be expelled regardless of how much money his father donated to the school. In a way, that would be a relief. Any school, private or public or even a military academy, would be preferable as long as he’d never have to see Witt again. The problem was his father had made it clear that if he were to be expelled from Avery, he would lose his trust fund, and so Jason was stuck. He would just have to find a way not to let Witt keep pushing his buttons. Easier said than done.
What he’d like to do was beat the snot out of him. Actually, he’d like to do far worse than that, but knocking Witt on his ass would be a good start. They were both skinny kids, neither of them athletic, Witt maybe an inch taller. But he had heard that Witt had been taking tae kwon do classes since the start of the school year, and Noah claimed he’d seen Witt performing an exotic kick. Jason had no idea what that would be, and Noah was useless in describing it in more detail, but the thought of some sort of exotic kick connecting with his head terrified him. The thought of losing in a fight with Witt terrified him even more. If that were to happen, it would be too humiliating for him to ever show his face at Avery again, even if it meant giving up his trust fund.
Jason knocked once on the door and walked into the headmaster’s office. Headmaster Allan Rector (the happenstance of the man having that last name was remarkable) was leaning back in his chair, his heavily-lidded eyes closed, his thick, sausage-like fingers interlaced as his hands rested on his massive belly. Whenever Jason would walk into the headmaster’s office and find Rector like this, he’d always wonder for a moment if Rector might be dead. A huge man, both in height and girth, with snow-white hair and an unhealthy grayish complexion. He had to be in his sixties, maybe even older, and given all the weight he carried he was a massive heart attack waiting to happen.
Jason took heavier steps as he approached the headmaster’s desk, and Rector’s eyes cracked open.
“Ah, Mr. Dorsage. It has been over three weeks. As much as I enjoy your company, I was hoping I wouldn’t be seeing you again under these circumstances.”
Jason took the chair opposite Rector and slumped in it. “I was hoping the same,” he admitted with a shrug. “But it couldn’t be helped.”
“The offense?”
“I called Witt Simon the Twat.”
“I’m sure you had your reason?”
Jason nodded glumly.
“Which class did this occur in?”
“Algebra.”
Rector grimaced. “So you said this in front of Ms. Gilligan?”
“She had just walked into the classroom. I didn’t know she was there.”
“Mr. Dorsage, it appears that you are the victim of unfortunate timing. I’m not going to suspend you, but I’m sure Ms. Gilligan is not particularly fond of you right now. Why don’t we give her a chance to cool off?”
With a heavy grunt, Rector bent forward and opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a chess set. After placing the board between himself and Jason, he grabbed a white and black pawn, put his large, doughy hands below the desk so he could switch the pawns around, and then held out his hands for Jason to choose one. He chose the hand holding the white pawn.
Over the course of the school year, they had played chess a number of times, even when a teacher hadn’t sent Jason to Rector’s office. All of their games were close, but Jason was smart enough to know when to make a critical mistake so that he would lose.
Witt might be clever in knowing how to push his buttons, but Jason had more than his own share of cleverness.
Chapter 34
Short Hills, New Jersey, 1999, later that same day
Jason was able to avoid any further contact with Simon Witt, and at the end of the school day he and Noah English eschewed the school vans that would have dropped them off at their homes, and chose instead to walk the mile and a half to Jason’s dad’s sprawling Georgian colonial. It was a crisp, cold February day, but it was a cloudless sky and the sun was bright, and by walking they’d avoid Witt.
When Jason was playing chess with Headmaster Rector (and he had to make back-to-back blunders before the headmaster saw the winning move), he’d come up with a vague and complicated idea of how he could deal with Witt. It was all very preliminary, and needed a lot more thought and planning before it could take shape, and it might never even come to fruition for the simple reason that Jason was unwilling to put his current project on hold to concentrate on this other plan. But it gave him a small degree of comfort knowing that he had a rather ingenious way of dealing with Witt if he ever decided to invest the time.
Jason’s mind was elsewhere as they walked, and he didn’t catch
what Noah had asked him. He glanced over his right shoulder and saw that Noah was struggling to keep pace, his cheeks mottled pink and white from physical exertion. Noah English was a short, pudgy kid, who wasn’t good at either academics or chess. Jason wasn’t sure how they’d become friends, except over the last two years Noah had become a hanger-on, a kid who always seemed interested in whatever project Jason had in the works. Maybe he was more a lackey than a friend. It was something Jason had never given any thought to before. He looked back again, and saw that Noah was falling farther behind. Although he was anxious to get home, he slowed down several steps so the boy could keep up with him.
“I can’t wait to see what you’ve been working on,” Noah said in an out-of-breath voice.
“My Rube Goldberg machine.”
“Why is it called that?”
That was a good question, and yet another thing Jason hadn’t thought about before. Sometimes Noah could surprise him. He was going to have to research it, because he was sure his father would be asking him the same question at some point, although more to trap him than out of curiosity.
“It just is,” Jason bluffed. “The contraption isn’t done yet, but it’s far enough along so you’ll have an idea of how it’s going to work. I’ve decided to let you help me finish it. Assuming you want to.”
“You bet I do!”
“You’ll have to keep it secret.”
“Don’t worry, my lips are sealed.”
Noah made a lip-sealing gesture, complete with tossing the imaginary key over his shoulder. Neither boy spoke after that until they got inside Jason’s home. Well, one of his homes. His parents divorced six years ago, and his mother also had a mansion of sorts in Short Hills, but he was rarely there. For the last three years his mother had been traveling abroad in Europe with her young stud boyfriend, and he had only seen her twice during that time, which as far as he was concerned was two times too many.
