A Touch to Die For

by Brian D. Meeks

  She laid on him, breathing softly, waiting for his next move, his next step towards "getting" her. Mitch said, "Unraveling the mystery that is you may well be a task that requires years, nay, decades."

  "Did you just use 'nay' in a sentence?"

  "I did, and you liked it!"

  "Right and right, which puts you at five for five."

  "Excellent. Do you give pop quizzes?"

  "Yes. There is also a mid-term and a final."

  "Did I miss the syllabus?"

  She smiled. "There isn't a syllabus, and none of the tests are announced ahead of time. You need to be ready twenty-four seven."

  "That's one of those rules you women talk about in your meetings."

  "Meetings?"

  "Don't play coy with me; we guys know you get together and make up rules that, when broken, result in all sorts of unpleasantness. It's terribly unfair."

  "Oh, THOSE meetings. Yes, that is from the secret book."

  "Well, I better make sure I'm prepared."

  "You've yet to show up for class unprepared."

  "Your innuendo has lost its power to make me blush."

  "That's only because we're alone."

  "In the interest of research, what is something you fear?"

  She sort of wiggled off Mitch and wedged herself between him and the back of the couch. She pulled the blanket off the back, pulled it over them and said, "That's a good question."

  The quiet of the night hovered outside the cabin door. Mitch waited, content in just being next to her. She never answered, and he hoped it wouldn't be on the final exam.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chavez woke up from a deep sleep. It was 3:27 am, according to the clock, which if he remembered correctly was five minutes slow. Then he heard it again. A yelp, then a light knock on the door from Agent Granville's room.

  "Come in."

  "Sir, we've got another video."

  "Why would you know that at 3:32 am?"

  "I've been checking every hour."

  Chavez sat up and flipped on the light. He rubbed his eyes, but before he could get out of bed Nancy sort of scampered to his side and set her laptop on his lap. "It has the same hallmarks of the last one."

  She hit play. A man strapped into a metal desk chair started to talk. "My name is Vladimir Festovia. I'm a mechanic in Reno, Nevada. I've been cheating people for five years."

  Nancy hit pause and said, "Look at his face and the background. Our killer was careful about shiny surfaces. Now take a look at his face."

  "When ze cars came in to shop, if plate from other state, then I tell them they have problems that don't exist. Americans are so stupid," he said, spitting out a mouth full of blood.

  Nancy said, "He's been beaten badly but is still defiant. And look at his knuckles, his hands have been smashed."

  The video continued, but it was hard to hear his next words. "I am a scumbag. It is wrong to lie and steal."

  "Now both eyes are swollen shut. The rest is pretty gruesome."

  The rest was two minutes of screaming as a gloved hand took a plasma torch to the Russian mechanic. Finally, there was silence and a simple screen with text that read, "Lying and Stealing are Wrong."

  Chavez shook his head. "That's pretty bad. Did he leave another Bible comment?"

  "Not this time, but he did write something," she said and took the laptop back. "Are you a rude asshole? Do you lie, steal, and cheat? Have you become a selfish pig? Well, don't worry, I'll find you, and we can have a little discussion about your behavior. It's time to thin the herd. Bitches."

  "I'm sure it sounded more badass in our killer's voice," Chavez said with a grin.

  "It was the 'bitches' wasn't it? I didn't really sell it. I should have lowered my voice."

  "You can practice on the plane. I'll call the director. You get a hold of the pilot and tell her to get ready ASAP then get on the phone with our people in Reno, send them a link, and see if they know this guy. Probably best to ring the locals, too. We need to get in touch with YouTube and get the video down, too."

  "Got it."

  Chavez got up, started the shower then made the call. His boss said exactly what he expected: rally the troops and bring him up to speed once they were in Reno. Chavez was showered, shaved, packed, and ready in fourteen minutes. Nancy already was waiting for him in the hall.

  #

  Paul was finding sleep annoying and difficult. It wasn't surprising that there should be demons creeping into his nights, but he was surprised how much different they were from the ones that had always haunted him.

  The fears of standing alone in a massive room of peers, naked against their assaults, hungry and alone, unable to make it to solitude had been replaced by halls and rooms, dark and cold, with whispers he couldn't quite understand and the unsettling horror of what might wait just ahead.

  The Russian mechanic had shown a sort of resolve that he had imagined only existed in movies. It had both surprised and delighted him to watch the man reach the point of surrender and understanding. To see a face lose hope was strangely satisfying.

  The moments following the kill were different this time. He didn't need to worry about getting rid of the body or driving a car all over hell. The mechanic had a phone that let him capture the video, but he wasn't on YouTube. Between shots, he had let the Russian think about what was happening and used the office computer to set up an account on his behalf. Paul even took the time to turn on the advertising stream so that the soon to be departed Russian might make a few rubles from his posthumous fame.

  For the last scene, he had needed to rig a tripod to hold the phone since he needed to work the torch. Paul had needed less than thirty minutes, after the final scene had been shot, to finish the editing and upload the video.

  Afterward, the drive back to San Francisco had been pleasant. He liked driving at night. It wasn't until he arrived home with the early morning sun and all its cheeriness that his mood soured.

  The four hours of sleep had been like taking medicine, but it was done now and the first thing he did after his shower was check on Mitch. He couldn't believe it. Mitch had used his Visa in Anchorage.

  "Sarge, it seems we've found him. He's in Alaska at an airport, but I don't know if he is coming or going. There aren't any airline ticket purchases."

  Paul checked Facebook and saw a post of a picture with a moose standing in a river and the caption read,"saying thank you for the wonderful week with Pioneer Outfitters". That explained where he had been the last week. The woman whom Mitch had lunched with gave it a "like."

  Mitch's Twitter stream was mostly filled with "Hey, where have you been?" and "Welcome back's!" Mitch RTed a few posts and had a lengthy conversation with what appeared to be a rather snarky guinea pig.

  "Okay, Pepsi, it is time to get back to our original plan. The hippies and mechanic were excellent practice, but now we need to get on with things."

  Paul's company had a place in Manhattan, but he wasn't sure he wanted to use it. While he packed, he weighed the pros and cons. He decided a room at the Ritz would better suit him.

  Cindy, the house computer, booked his suite and let his pilot know he was on his way. He would check in shortly before midnight in the city that never sleeps.

  #

  Mitch looked at his phone. It was two minutes after midnight. He was still somewhere over Pennsylvania or at least that was his best guess. They had gotten an early start and now, almost a full day later, he was almost back home.

  He couldn't sleep anymore and was, unbelievably, pretty much caught up on emails and tweets. Kate had tried to book him for another lecture, this time in Syracuse, but he just didn't have it in him. The rest of the "urgent" stuff mostly got deleted without being read.

  Their last night together had been the best yet. When the morning arrived, the sun that crept through the curtains carried nothing but optimism. Saying goodbye to Amber-Lee and everyone had been a little sad. Mitch left the la
st three Twix bars with instructions to save them for times when Frankie had done something especially hug worthy.

  With close to fifteen hundred images on his memory cards, Mitch would have plenty of photos to play back home. Usually, this would be almost as exciting as getting ready for a trip. He could lose entire days pouring over the raw files, but it just didn't excite him this time.

  Mitch let his internal voice run loose and speak to his mood.

  The mind can be generous or cruel. What can only be interpreted as playful flirting during the "glass half full" years of youth, becomes an endless tree of possible meaning with each branch filled with leaves of doubt, in the years between mid-life crisis and the desperate searching for meaning. Every memory from the past week would be filed among his best save for one.

  As they stood by the car waiting to take her home, he had held her hands in his and looked into her eyes. Maybe the words sounded rehearsed, but, in truth, he had put a great deal of thought into the words, or more accurately, the tone. He said, "Thanks for hanging out with me."

  As soon as he heard the words come out of his mouth, he started to panic because they didn't sound right. "What I mean is, you are wonderful," he said, but that was wrong, too. His heart had red lined. She just stood there listening.

  "That's not right," he said. He let out a sigh when she raised an eyebrow. "You are wonderful, but what I'm trying to say is is that there is a lot of world left to explore. It would be more fun to explore it with you than without."

  There was a time in junior high when he was certain that the little, dark-haired girl named Karen liked him, too. Mitch asked her to the dance. She said "sure," but, on that Thursday, he panicked and made up an excuse about his family having to leave town. He told his mother he was sick on Friday, and there was some truth in it.

  Mitch continued, "I don't know what's next, but I'd like to go someplace else together. What do you think?"

  She kissed him on the cheek and said, "Maybe."

  It was the worst word in the English language. A woman he had dated once said, "Maybe means no." Mitch didn't know if it was her rule or if this was a universal truth among all women. History made him think it might be the latter. He wished he had asked her to clarify, but it was too late now.

  He climbed back aboard the plane and let the "maybe" play over and over in his head until he had little choice but to start drinking. He had been so smooth. Most of the time he had been confident and, during those few times where it seemed to waiver, he faked it convincingly...or that is what it seemed like at the time.

  "Maybe" she had grown tired of him mid-way through the week but was trapped in the middle of boundless nature. "Maybe" she had been pretending the whole time. "Maybe" she was really into that Nigel fellow and this was just a vacation slash jealousy ploy.

  Mitch either read too much old fiction or wrote too much of it ever to be at peace. He closed his eyes and imagined himself on a brilliant carousel horse. He could hear the carnival music, the laughter, the gaiety all around, but then the brass ring would pass, and he couldn't reach it. Was he really trying?

  He wanted to talk about it, but there wasn't anyone in the five boroughs he wanted to bore with his problems. Not even Kate because he could already hear her encouraging answer to everything. That wouldn't do; he needed someone who was miserable and knew how to behave. Someone who had been in the bowels of love or despair, whatever it was called, and lived to tell the tale.

  He didn't know anyone who had felt like this. How could they with their houses and kids and soccer practices three nights per week? People stopped living at a certain age, and Mitch was alone in sailing the seas of life, looking for a safe harbor, and thinking he had found a shipmate. Maybe he had but maybe he hadn't. Damn her and her "maybe."

  The pilot said something about their arrival time, but Mitch didn't care. The door would open when the plane was stopped and not a minute sooner. Knowing didn't speed things along.

  Maybe they would crash. The thought cheered him up slightly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  "Hello," Mitch said.

  "Did I wake you?

  "Hey, Kate, no, well, yes, but it is okay. What's up?"

  "How was your trip?"

  "What time is it?"

  "A little after 10 am."

  "Don't we have a no calls before noon rule?"

  "You know how I feel about you sleeping all day."

  "I feel the same way about you sleeping all night. We've reached an impasse. I'm going back to sleep."

  "I just wanted to check with you again about the talk in Syracuse."

  "I'm not feeling it."

  "Why? You've always said it was a paid ego trip and that you loved those."

  "I'm getting old."

  "I think you have one more in you before you're put out to pasture."

  "Moo and goodnight; the answer is still no," he said and hit the end conversation button.

  Mitch hated to be roused from a deep sleep. He wasn't great at returning to the land of nod once he left. The apartment was filled with mid-morning light, and the Manhattan sky seemed free of pollution for some reason. It was too damn bright. He was in an overcast and smoggy mood and needed clouds.

  He fired up his laptop and checked Facebook for a couple of minutes. Five "likes" were all he could manage. Twitter didn't even get a look. He needed a distraction.

  The shower didn't wash away the angst.

  Once on the street, the first thing Mitch heard was someone cussing out a taxi driver. It was good to be home. The air, though clearer than normal, still had a stench about it. Had Alaska ruined him for New York?

  At 10:30 am, a hot dog from a street vendor made him realize it hadn't. A smiling couple holding hands reset his mood to dreadful. It was three blocks to the newsstand, and not even the worn face of Magazine Chen lifted his spirits even though there was some comfort in his greeting.

  "Hola Mr. Bessemer, where you been? I no sell you magazine for long time."

  Mitch leaned in, put his hand on Chen's shoulder, and whispered, "What's with the pigeon English, you grew up in Queens?"

  Lowering his voice, he said, "My cousin started doing it over on 42nd street, and the tourists ate it up."

  Bad mood or not, that was funny. Mitch laughed. "I'll take the Times."

  A family who sounded like they might have been from New Orleans were happy to be alive, and Magazine Chen started in with his charm. Mitch heard him saying something about bringing his family over from Singapore. He didn't look back, but it seemed Chen's cousin had stumbled onto something.

  #

  From across the street, using an Olympus with a 4x digital zoom, Paul casually snapped a few photos. He had been up since six am and had bought a paper from that same vendor a few hours earlier.

  His plan was to get a picture of where all the cameras were in the blocks that made up Mitch's neighborhood. He hoped to be able to hack into the police system and use it to track Mitch's movement. He also wanted to find kill zones.

  Hunting in the city would be tough. It was hard to move about without a camera seeing what one was up to. Paul had a couple of things working in his favor. One, Mitch was the same height, weight, and build as him. Second, Mitch seemed to wear hats often.

  Paul had already picked up two Kangol caps and a Brooklyn Dodgers baseball hat. All three showed up regularly in the photos Mitch had on Facebook. Paul's study of Mitch made him feel like he was back in college doing a research project.

  Paul followed close enough to see Mitch a block ahead. Mitch popped into a bookstore, and Paul lingered outside and across the street and took photos of all the buildings. He hated being a "tourist."

  #

  Alexis hadn't had a drop to drink in almost two weeks. The poor sap they had locked away was still being railroaded for both murders. She found Antonio sitting in the park reading. "You taking the day off?"

  "I'm on my lunch break and may be for the rest of th
e day."

  "It's after four o'clock."

  "Okay, it's my dinner break then."

  "Is the accountant still hovering around?"

  "Yes, but I think he is losing interest."

  "I was sure another body would turn up somewhere."

  "I've checked with my contacts all over Europe, and not a single case with our killer's signature."

  "You think we might actually have caught the guy?"

  "You want to get back inside a bottle?"

  "Hey, be nice."

  "No, I don't think he did it. Nobody else seems to care, though, as long as someone gets convicted."

  "I care."

  "I know you do, Alex."

  "What about the U.S.?"

  "I haven't checked the States. Do you think we might have a world traveler?"

  "What sort of serial killer only kills twice? They want attention, to play a game, and to prove how smart they are, usually to make up for some deficiency. At least, that is often the case. This is anything but usual."

  "Perhaps one killing was a feint to throw us off the track for the other killing?"

  "I suppose it's possible. Tell you what. I'll make some calls and see if there is anything on the radar. Then I'm getting back to my life."

  "I wish you wouldn't."

  "Make the calls?"

  "You know what I mean."

  "Take care," she said as she walked away.

  Alexis went home and got out her old laptop. She hadn't fired it up in a long time, but the contact list in her address book still had the number she wanted. She punched the numbers and waited.

  "Agent Chavez here. Who is this?"

  "Don't recognize the number? What about the voice?"

  "Alex, is that you?"

  "It is. How's it going?"

  "I'm up to my neck - how about you?"

  "I'm keeping occupied."

  "Are you calling about our new serial killer?"

  Alexis was surprised. "Yes, how did you hear about it?"