by Nick Pirog
I knew Tristen, or at least I knew how his mind worked. Each kill had to be bigger, better, and bloodier than the last. He couldn’t move down the ranks from Ashley Andrews to Samantha Jackson. Maybe this, my driving to her house this instant, had been his ploy. I called Caleb and told him to be on the lookout.
I exited US 1 northbound and entered the town of Camden. I’d driven Samantha home once when she’d gotten food poisoning from her shift meal. I’d taken her home, then gone back for the meat loaf, which coincidentally, had been the very meal to make her ill. Go figure.
I pulled up to Samantha’s, a small row house, sitting in the epicenter of a class six earthquake of a yard. I jumped out, pushed a hotwheel and a scooter out of my way, and knocked on the thin door. I watched the hand on my Tag tick full circle. A pessimistic streak in me had the thought, “It’s hard to answer the door when your feet and ankles are in different rooms.”
I walked around to the back of the house and peered through a sliding glass door. I put pressure on the door and it slid easily. There was a small kitchen and I flipped the light. There weren’t many places to hide a bedroom in the small house and I walked out of the kitchen and into a cramped hallway. The hallway was devoid of light and I failed to see the baseball bat being swung at my midsection. The bat was a Nerf one and I ripped it easily from the grip of the small black woman attached to it.
Samantha Jackson was sporting plaid boxers, a bright yellow T-shirt, and an expression of menacing doom. She was in a state of panic and it took me two or three minutes to calm her down. I’d been fully prepared to find a woman turned 3-D puzzle, and as elated as I was that Samantha was alive, it threw me for a loop.
I’d just completed a thorough walk through of all two rooms, when there was a knock at the door, which I opened to Conner, Caitlin, Gleason, and Gregory. I told them everything seemed to be in order and asked Gregory if all the other agents had checked in.
He nodded.
I had my doubts about Todd’s system here. I inquired, “And might I ask what rigorous data your men are disclosing to ascertain their identities?” I think the size of Todd’s dick would have been a good verifier.
He threw me his holier-than-thou glance. “Mother’s maiden name and blood type.”
“O-Really.”
“Yes, ‘Oh, really,’ you condescending prick.”
“I thought you wanted my blood type and mother’s maiden name; O-Really.”
If Todd Gregory could have looked hotter under the collar a Brad Pitt blow-up doll would be involved. So I’m AB positive and my mother’s maiden name is Reid, but I was pissed at these shitheads for withholding information from me. I waited with Samantha until her mother picked her up and threw in the towel. As I pulled the door to my Range Rover open a hand clasped my forearm. It was Caitlin.
She looked me in the eyes and said, “What do you think?”
I’d lied to Caitlin one time too many. No more lies. “Tristen said he had a date with a beautiful young lady. So, I imagine he’s killing her right now and we’ll find her when he wants us to.”
Chapter 31
I woke up with my head on Alex’s kitchen table. It was still dark outside and my cell phone told me the sun would be rising any moment. Four hours of sleep is plenty when there’s a psychotic killer popping his head into every dream. I went for a long run on the trail running along the lake making up Alex’s backyard. About half the lake was surrounded by dirt and prairie and I spent this time dreading Tristen’s next move. The other half of the lake was girdled by spruces and I spent this time dreading ticks and Lyme’s disease.
My cell phone chirped as I walked through Alex’s front door and I shied away from the voices resonating the kitchen. Gleason’s drawl shot through the phone, “Well the good news is that all the women are accounted for.”
“That is good news Wade. What’s the bad news?”
“It’s a double dose actually. Our agent never showed up. We put an APB out on the car, but I’m not very optimistic.”
Ditto. “What’s the second round of bad juju?”
“Charles wants Todd and I on the next flight back to Quantico.”
I said my scripted line, “I thought you said you had bad news?” Hardy-har-har.
I added, “So throwing in the towel are you.”
“Not completely. The next hot date isn’t for five days. We’ll pick the brains of a couple guys at the Bureau before heading back. We’ll need to get a composite from you and run it through our mainframe. There’s a slim chance this Grayer fellow is in our system, or an even slimmer chance it’s someone else altogether.”
Don’t count on it. I asked, “Have you seen today’s paper?”
“Which paper?”
If I’d been talking to Gregory I would have said, The North Dakota Free Press.
“Uh, the Waterville Tribune.”
I heard Gleason rustling with the paper. He came back on, “Holy shit, how did you pull this off?”
“I’ve got a contact at the paper.”
“Tooms?”
“Yep. She bought the paper.”
He seemed to give this some thought. “This picture is pretty creepy. I think they may have gotten the wrong color on the kid’s eyes. They’re orange.”
“Nope, that’s them. They say if you look deep into Satan’s eyes you can see hell.”
“You think they’re contacts?”
“Doubt it. He’s not going to put on a dress and dance for us.”
“You mean for you.”
“Exactly.”
“Unbelievable you got this in today’s paper. It might throw him off when he sees it.”
Tristen Grayer knew his picture would be in this morning’s paper. He knew my next move before I did. “Let’s hope. Hey, tell Gregory to fuck a duck for me.”
He said he would. I made him write it down and repeat it back to me.
I walked into the kitchen. All eight of Alex’s guests were crammed into the kitchen eating cereal. They all stopped when I entered and I assumed they wanted to know where I’d gone last night, who was on the phone, and if another woman was dead.
I grabbed a glass of orange juice and said, “Here’s the deal, all the women are accounted for. But the agent whose car Tristen stole is MIA, missing in action, which subsequently means he’s probably DIA, decomposing in the Atlantic.” I briefed them on the phone call with Gleason and that the Feds were going home for a long weekend.
Caleb raised his hand and I called on him, “Yes, Caleb.”
“What do you want us to do? Should we stay on stakeout for one more night or what?”
“At least for another day. I don’t have the slightest clue what Tristen is up to. Why don’t the eight of you stick together at least through the weekend?”
Sixteen eyes congregated on Alex, aka, House Mom. She shrugged. “You’re all welcome to stay here for as long as you like, I hate being in this big house all alone.”
Kim Welding shook her head, “Don’t you want us to appear vulnerable. I mean we want him to come after one of us, right?”
No, I didn’t want to use three of my students, my sister, and Alex as bait. I’d already lost two worms, and I didn’t even know I had my line in the water. “We’ll play that card when we need to.”
This repartee seemed to satisfy her. My sister was the only sourpuss of the group and I asked, “You all right, Lace?”
She did a dramatic frown, “I miss Baxter.”
I wasn’t too worried about him, I’d tried to kill him on several different occasions and come up short. Baxter was a survivor. If anyone could escape the reaches of Tristen Grayer it was the narcolepugtic.
Alex steered me out of the room. “Let’s go grab a paper, I want to see how the picture came out.”
“I can’t believe you don’t get your own paper delivered to your house.”
“I like to separate work from play.”
I was curious which category I fell under. She added, “We’ll pick up a
paper on the way.”
Huh. “On the way?”
She smiled. “We have a sailing date, remember.”
It was close to ten when Alex and I had a cooler packed and were buckled in the Range Rover. I pulled through the gateless drive and Alex said, “Are you sure you want to go sailing?”
I’d been asking myself the same question. Tristen’s picture had landed on the doorstep of close to fifteen thousand homes this morning. By now, there’d probably been twenty or thirty calls to the police about the photo. Two-thirds of them would be crackpots, and the other third would be people who mistook the weird-kid-who-lived-down-the-hall for Tristen Grayer. None of these would pan out, Tristen Grayer was too smart, too methodical, and too damn spontaneous.
Tristen didn’t leave clues at the scene and if he did they were meant to be found. He was in total control. So that was my rationale in going sailing. “Yes.”
We passed a Dunkin Donuts and Alex ran in. She came out with two coffees and two papers. Alex tossed one on my lap, my eyes immediately training on Tristen Grayer’s vivid tangerine oculus. It was like staring into the face of a lion.
That’s what he was, he wasn’t a demon, he was a lion. Tristen was the ghost in the darkness. Slinking off at night from his remote lair and picking off the group till it no longer existed.
I looked up at Alex and she said, “He looks like a lion.”
We hit the kite shop in Portland and by noon we were parked in the Bayside harbor loading lot. Alex hauled the cooler out of the trunk and I picked up the kite. In hindsight, I think Alex may have expected me to relieve her of cooler duty, which is confusing because she’d picked the cooler up of her own accord.
She hoisted the cooler up with a grunt and said, “You really know the way to a woman’s heart.”
Each time Alex set down the cooler she gave me a look as to say, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” When she set it down for the fifth and final time, about twenty feet from the boat, I said, “Here let me get that for you. That looks a little heavy for such a pretty lady.” I didn’t want to blow my chances for a little skinny-dipping completely.
I knelt down to pick up the cooler, but Alex slapped my hand away. She ambled off grunting obscenities as I scanned the premises for Kellon. There were only a couple little guys milling around the pier, none of which was Kellon. I walked up the small wooden walkway to the dock manager hut and opened the door. Kellon’s dad was on the phone and from his silence and the disgruntled look on his face I suspected he was on hold. Kellon’s dad fell somewhere in between the terms Big and Obese. He was balding and sunburned to boot, making his head appear vaguely similar to a hairy Italian in a red tank top. I waved the kite near his peripheral and said, “Is Kellon here?”
He shook his head and stared at the phone jack on the wall as if it were the man’s face who’d put him on hold. I wonder if I were getting more attention than Kellon would if he was on the ground having a seizure. I said, “If you see him, tell him Captain Dipshit has something for him.”
I turned and stepped through the open door.
From behind me the beast murmured, “If I see her. Kellon is a girl.”
Chapter 32
I did a U-turn in the door frame, “What do you mean Kellon is a girl?”
Kellon’s dad didn’t answer me, so I pulled the phone base from the wall and threw it over his head.
He didn’t look pleased and screamed, “What in the hell?”
I prodded, “Kellon is a girl? Are you sure?”
He was silent for a second. Thinking. Can you believe that? Two plus two is four, oil and vinegar don’t mix, and your offspring either has a penis or a vagina.
Finally, he said, “Yeah, Kellon’s a girl.”
Highly doubtful. He probably flipped a coin at the custody hearing. I asked,
“Where is she?”
He glared at me. “You owe me a fucking phone.”
“I’m gonna owe you a hefty dental bill if you don’t tell me where Kellon is.” I think he thought I was serious because I’d pulled him over the desk by his shirt collar.
He stammered, “She’s with her mother this weekend.”
Thank God. “Are you positive?”
“Of course.”
I let go of his Bayside Harbor tee and said, “Thank you. The next time you see her, tell her, Captain Dipshit has something for her.”
I took sixty bucks from my pocket and left it on the desk. “Forty is for the phone and twenty is for Kellon for docking my boat last weekend.” I gave him a look that I hope conveyed, Try me motherfucker, I’ve got a lot of steam bottled up and beating the piss out of a deadbeat dad might just be the remedy I’ve been looking for.
Walking out of the hut, I had a strong premonition Kellon would not only see the twenty bucks, she might even get a hug out of the old man.
As I made my way to the Backstern, I surveyed Alex untying the boat and imagined she’d been similar to Kellon as a child. Penis envy was big at four and five. It was at about the age of ten that girls thanked the Lord they didn’t have to walk around with a Twinkie in their undies.
I thought about how scared I’d been when I’d heard her dad utter the words, you mean her. Kellon is a girl. They echoed through my head, a refrain slightly audible behind Tristen’s chorus, Listen I’d love to chat, but I have a date with a beautiful young lady.
I was grateful Kellon was at her mother’s this weekend. Kellon once told me that her mom lived in Kittwery. How in the hell had the mother not gotten custody of the child? I’d seen the mother once during the Summer and while she wasn’t Princess Di, she didn’t seem like Queen-crack-head either.
Alex threw the mooring lines onto the boat and said, “Off we go. Why do you still have the kite?”
“She wasn’t around.”
I saw the word “she” hit her eardrum and blow up like a shotgun shell. Alex’s eyes widened like there were two invisible fingers holding them open. I beat her to the punch, “Yeah, Kellon’s a little girl not a little boy. I freaked too, but she’s at her mom’s this weekend.”
Her eyes said, “Whew,” and she hopped aboard the boat.
We disembarked and I retired to the captain’s chair with Mick and Lob. The three of us studied the ease Alex walked about the boat as only one could who’d grown up on the water. She immediately caught us a breeze, a breeze I hadn’t felt until my brain told my body there must be one if we were moving. I’d say ten knots south by southeast.
I sank my hand into the cooler and handed a beer to Alex. She swigged in silence and did a couple minor adjustments on something called a jib. I inquired as to when the poop deck came into play and was rewarded with an eye roll so violent you’d of thought Alex counted her lashes. When we had eclipsed the harbor she finally sat down and said, “Perfect day for sailing.”
It was perfect. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky or a chop in the water. We sipped our beers and chatted, and every so often she would get up to correct the sails or jimmy this or jimmy that, all the while spatting all sorts of sailing jargon. In hindsight, I would have forgone Hieroglyphics in high school and opted for Sailish.
We traded war stories from the high seas, hers having mostly to do with inclement weather, mine, inclement brain activity. She thought I made up the part about The Maine Catch and I told her I could prove it. But I couldn’t prove it and melted into my boating under the influence parable, my personal favorite.
She smacked her leg and said, “What’d you do while the kid sailed the boat back?”
What a stupid question. “I drank.”
She put her beer out and the two of us toasted the high seas. We ate some sandwiches we’d picked up from a deli near the kite store and Alex cut the sails, which I learned does not involve scissors. So that’s where I went wrong. With me it was like Amelia Bedelia Goes Sailing.
I went to check my cell phone and the next thing I heard was a splash. I glanced up and saw the majority—nope, make that all—of Alex’s clothes lyin
g on the boat deck.
Gulp.
I walked to the edge of the boat and peered down. Alex was treading water and I could see the tops of her buoys. She waved for me to come in and I think I saw one of her nipples.
I love sailing.
Chapter 33
I did a spot check. The only boat close enough to see us would have needed binoculars and appeared to be heading in the opposite direction. I unbuttoned my shirt. Slowly. Pulled my shorts down. Again slowly. That one nipple had awakened Paddington Bare and I didn’t want my paddle out when I jumped in the water. I turned so my butt was facing Alex and pulled my boxer briefs off. Technically, I could have faced front, but my mother always told me not to point. If the pirate critters on board needed someone to walk the plank, I was their man.
I heard Alex whistle and decided my best option was to jump off the opposite side of the boat and swim around. Selective genius, what did I tell you. I dove into the water and swam around the boat until Alex came into view. The two of us swam about thirty or so yards from the boat, coming to rest roughly a wave from each other. She spit a stream of water in my direction and said, “I didn’t see any scarring from the maxi-pad flaps.”
I smiled and said, “Can we talk about sharks instead.”
She laughed then submerged her head under water. I was under the erroneous impression she was going to play shark and I was to play harpoon. She popped up and said, “I can’t believe you dove in naked.”
“I didn’t want you to feel awkward skinny-dipping alone.”
Alex pulled two straps up and secured them over her shoulders. The treacherous devil had a swimsuit on. She said, “That’s for making me carry the cooler you asshole.”
I stopped treading water and let gravity do its thing. It was cold, really cold, and come to think of it, I not only no longer had a stiff paddle, I couldn’t locate my paddle at all. An old Seinfeld episode breached the surface of my brain. Elaine: It shrinks? Jerry: Like a frightened turtle.
