by Lane Diamond
"Physically, she'll be fine, but she hasn't spoken, is unresponsive, and doesn't even seem to recognize me or her parents. The doctor says she endured such an unimaginable psychological trauma that the only way she could cope was to check out. She suffered a psychotic break."
"Damn! I'm sorry, Tony. What's the prognosis?"
I shrugged. "Nobody knows."
Jackson stepped forward and placed a hand on my shoulder. "You know, this is not unheard of. The good news is that it's always temporary—well, ninety-nine percent of the time, it is. She'll come around. Give her some time. What she requires is your patience and understanding."
"That's what the doctor said, but it's awfully difficult."
"You'll get through it. Chief, do you suppose we could get this young man some coffee before we get started?"
"You bet. Cream only, Tony?"
"Yes sir. Thanks."
"Agent Monroe," Jackson said, "while we're waiting on Chief Radlon, would you please read through our notes to bring Tony up to speed on the situation with Norton?"
A few minutes later, the chief returned with my coffee—strong and bitter. Perfect.
I provided the timelines to go along with their notes, and they confirmed them with Norton's account, where he'd answered intelligibly. I added commentary where my time overlapped with his, and provided them with the full details of my efforts.
Well... most of the details.
Time crawled, interrupted occasionally for more coffee or a bathroom break.
At noon, a knock on the door preceded the entry of two officers. They carried bags of food and a box of soft drinks. As we ate, Jackson confirmed some important points that required only a simple yes or no.
After a half-hour break, we resumed the serious discussions. Every forty-five minutes they flipped over the cassette tape or put in a new one. A little before two o'clock, another knock on the door, and Sergeant Harker once again poked her head inside.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, Chief," she said, "but Deputy Ricks from the sheriff's department is here and he needs to see you."
"Now? Did you tell him I'm busy?" He made no attempt to hide his frustration.
"Yes sir, but I'm quite certain you'll want to speak with him."
The sergeant's serious demeanor defeated the chief's irritation.
"You guys go ahead without me," he said. "I'll be back as soon as possible."
A lot of work went into these reports; they must record every minor and seemingly insignificant detail. My lunch settled and the coffee, which I'd stopped drinking, wore off. My exhaustion grew. Although my mind whirled in a storm of memories and thought, my body was failing me. Stiff and sore, I was about to ask for a break to stand and walk around, when the chief returned looking as though his beloved dog had died.
He leaned toward Jackson and said in a quiet voice, "How much longer will you be?"
Jackson hesitated and gazed directly into the chief's eyes, and tension filled the room. "We can take a break for a while."
"Good," the chief said. "You mind turning off the tape?"
Jackson nodded at Monroe and she clicked off the tape recorder.
The chief sat next to me, spinning his chair around to face me directly from a couple feet away. He leaned in, and the smell of his aftershave mingled with his morning supply of coffee.
Suddenly frightened, my thoughts shifted immediately to Diana. Something terrible had happened. I could feel it.
"Tony, I don't know how to say this except to just say it. I'm afraid there's been an accident."
What? How? She was safe in the hospital and they said they would keep her there for several days, at least. What could have happened? Diana! Dear God, what has happened to my Diana!
"Your dad hit a bridge abutment while driving."
What?
"We don't know everything yet—how it happened—but.... Tony, I'm so sorry. Your dad died."
I couldn't say anything. My eyes watered but I didn't cry.
Why is the world ending?
Chapter 58 – June 19, 1995: Tony Hooper
"If we had to tolerate in others all that we permit in ourselves, life would become completely unbearable." – Georges Courteline
~~~~~
Norton is a solid minute ahead of me. He'll be inside soon, if he isn't already.
I sprint toward Ethel's house. I know she sleeps in one of the smaller bedrooms downstairs, and leaves the upstairs master bedroom available for guests, like her kids or grandkids. She started this arrangement after she strained her knee last year. Assuming Norton doesn't know this, it may give me the extra minute I need to catch up with him.
One thing is clear: the identity of the killer is no longer in question. Norton once again terrorizes Algonquin's residents.
How will he gain entry into the house? Does he have lock-picks that he's learned to use, or does he require an open window or an unlocked door? Whatever his method, I may have an opportunity to catch up to him while he addresses it.
Why did he choose Ethel's house? Was it intentional, or does he choose them at random? She's a widow, elderly and living alone, which must have entered into his thinking.
I reach her front hedges, pause a beat to prepare myself, and peer around the edge. Nothing. Norton must be going in through the back.
I dash down the driveway, less cautious now that Ethel's safety is the only concern. I'll have my katana out and drawn across his chest in a flash, if necessary. That doesn't mean I'll be reckless, just quick.
I clear the rear corner ready to act.
Shit! He's inside.
I unsheathe one of the ninjaken and run to the open rear door. Once inside, I move through the mudroom and into the kitchen, toward the front hall. I look in the dark for any sign of Norton, and listen for a telltale sound. Ethel's dog—Rex, I think—lies on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood.
Damn! You're working quickly, Norton, but I know how much you like to play with your victims.
He must prepare Ethel for his rituals, which should give me the time I need.
I do my walking-on-air thing—not a sound—and flash through the hall and into the small downstairs bedroom. There's nobody here! The bed is unruffled, still made up.
She must have decided to go back to her room upstairs.
I take them two at a time and continue down the hall, when a shrill voice cuts the night.
Ethel screams, "Oh no! My God, who are you? Don't!"
I lean around the corner of the doorway. Norton hovers at the bed and looks down at Ethel with a knife in his right hand, ready to strike.
"I'm sorry," he says.
"What?" I say. "You're sorry?"
He jerks his head in my direction, and I bolt into the room. His body still faces partly toward Ethel, which puts him at an awkward angle.
My plan, as conceived prior to this, has always been to use Norton's own weapon against him, if possible. It has nothing to do with irony or justice or any such thing. It's a simple matter of leaving no evidence the police can link to me.
I'll use my weapons only if I must—if there's no other way to save Ethel.
Shocked by my appearance, he freezes.
That's all the time I need. When I get within reach of him, he spins away from Ethel and slashes at me with the knife. Perfect! As long as he comes after me, Ethel is safe. He slashes back and forth wildly, and each time I jump back to avoid the knife.
I need only one brief opportunity, but it's not as easy as I'd imagined. The darkness makes it difficult to focus.
That changes when a light flashes on.
Good girl, Ethel!
She screams again and Norton stumbles to a halt. He then lunges for Ethel, but I catch his wrist and twist it up and over, which throws him off-balance and spins him into the wall. He grunts and swings the knife. Perfect again!
I slip my left arm inside his elbow and my right hand onto his wrist. In one swift motion, I use my left arm as a lever and my right hand as both a vice-grip, s
ealing the knife in his hand, and a plunger, driving the blade into his chest.
The sudden silence is marred by a single gurgle. Every horrible thing he's ever done—the people he's destroyed and the lives he's ruined—it ends here.
I can't pull my eyes from him, mesmerized as the devil chokes on his own blood.
With his free hand, he grabs my hand to remove it from the knife, but he has no strength. His arm drops limp to his sides.
I release him and take two steps back.
Norton's killing hand drops from his weapon, and he stares at me, his eyes pools of disbelief. He tries to say something, but chokes and spits a gob of blood out onto his chest. He slides down the wall to his knees, then topples over onto his right side.
I step forward and lean over him.
The knife in his chest rises and falls, rises and falls, with each dying gasp. He stares up at me blankly—won't be alive much longer. The knife is too deep, probably in a lung, and the blood flow too profuse.
He's crying.
"Your tears don't move me, Norton," I say. "If you weren't such an animal, or if you weren't the devil, it might be different, but this is exactly what you deserve."
He labors to breathe as blood runs from the corner of his mouth. He can't speak, but his eyes convey utter confusion.
"They never should have released you from the prison hospital. Seventeen years ago, you destroyed the life I had. Now I've destroyed yours, and you know what? I'll sleep fine. What do you think of that?"
"Tony?" Ethel's intrusion startles me. "Is that you, dear?"
"One minute, Ethel. It's almost over."
"What is that you're wearing? You scared me as much as he did. What are you doing here?" She shuffles closer and looks down at Norton. With barely a whisper, more terrified than uncertain, she says, "Would he have killed me?"
"Yes. This is the serial killer who's been terrorizing Algonquin."
"Dear God! How did you find him?" She pulls her nightgown tight. "Did... did you know he would come for me?"
"We'll talk about that later, Ethel."
Norton gasps and struggles to inhale. He tries to reach out for me, stronger than I'd given him credit for, but he can barely raise his arm. One last gasp wracks his body and his hand drops to the floor. The knife protruding from his chest quivers, then is still.
Mitchell Norton, the devil, is dead.
Ethel stumbles back and flops onto the edge of her bed.
I check the bedclothes and her nightgown for signs of blood or injury, but they're clean and white. "Are you okay, Ethel? Did he hurt you?"
"No, I'm fine." She stammers and her hands shake. "You stopped him in the nick of time. A few more seconds and.... Dear God."
"Good."
"Is he dead?" Her eyes are wide with fear.
"Yes, he's gone." I draw a deep, satisfied breath. "He won't hurt you or anyone else, ever again."
"Thank you so much, dear. How can I ever repay you for this? I'd be dead if not for you." A few tears trickle as the emotion hits her.
"You want to thank me?"
"Of course."
"Then here's what I need you to tell the police."
I spell it out for her and have her repeat the critical parts. She knows that if the police find out I killed him, they'll throw me in jail. My future hangs on what she tells them. It will be uncomfortable for her, perhaps embarrassing, but she says she understands and will do as I say.
"You're sure your conscience will be okay with this, Ethel?"
"My conscience will be fine. I'm only alive because of you."
"All right, give me five minutes and then call the police. Can you wait that long?"
"I don't much like having him there—just lying there. It's kind of creepy, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, I know what you mean, but it's only five minutes and he is dead. He can't hurt you."
"I know. It's spooky, but I can wait. You hurry on, dear."
I look again at Norton. The temptation to remove his mask is strong, the urge to see his face etched in terror and pain. Yet what's the point? Besides, I should leave everything for the police.
"Five minutes, Ethel, and remember, call me tomorrow when they're done with you. Okay?"
"All right." She recovers her composure, at least a little. "Maybe I'll stop over to Frank's and cook us a nice dinner. How does that sound?"
"That sounds fine, Ethel."
I turn to leave, but.... I can't resist. I must see his face.
I stoop down, careful to leave no marks, and raise the mask above his eyes. The eyes... they're the same as I remember—the same angle, the same color and texture. The rest, however—
Oh no! No, no, no, no, no. It can't be Tommy. Not Tommy Norton. It's supposed to be Mitchell! Goddammit!
I drop to a knee, clench my fists into furious balls, and press them against my forehead. My breath catches in my throat and everything grinds to a stop.
Until Ethel responds to my reaction. "What is it, dear? Who is that man?"
"It's the killer." I stand and stare at the wall, still struggling to find my breath. "That's all that matters."
Someday I may believe that.
I choke the raw emotion out of my throat. "Remember, give me five minutes."
Chapter 59 – June 20, 1995: Tony Hooper
When the chief called a short time ago and asked if I'd be available, I already knew the purpose of his visit: Algonquin's serial killer of 1995 is dead at the hands of a mysterious stranger. This assumed Ethel Simmons adhered to the plan.
The chief has responsibilities, and he must go through the motions, though I'm guessing he'd prefer not to delve into my possible involvement.
It must have been almost two o'clock this morning when Ethel contacted the police.
I presume that shortly thereafter, Linda received the call in her car. I can imagine her unpleasant reaction, and I'm surprised that it's taken this long for them to contact me.
I slept long and mostly well this morning, though I will confess to a mild case of the jitters. It's almost three o'clock in the afternoon and Frank and I sit on the patio, where for the past two hours we've discussed last night's events. He drinks tea and watches over me with a modicum of concern. I suck down beers at a prodigious clip.
Last night was precisely what I'd anticipated, planned for, hoped for... and a complete shock. Nonetheless, I reduced the world's ranks of serial killers by one. How terrible should I feel about that?
I continue to unwind into an alcohol-induced blur.
The chief pokes his head over the fence and says, "Mind if we come in?"
He and Linda come through the gate and plunk down in the chairs I set up for them. The chief faces Frank, Linda faces me, and I face the judgment of two friends.
I hold up my beer and say, "I know you're on duty and you can't have one of these, but I assumed you'd love one of Frank's world famous lemonades. Those are yours." I point to the two glasses I set up for them.
They nod their appreciation and grab their drinks. Everybody is silent for a moment, hesitant. Nobody wants to talk about this.
I've never been sure how much the chief knows about me, about what I do, but he's a smart man and a professional. I wouldn't be surprised if he's figured it out.
Frank breaks the uneasy silence. "How is the bright and beautiful Linda today?"
She flashes a winning smile. "You're such an old charmer."
"And how is the bright and beautiful chief today?" Frank's grin is precious.
"Very funny, old man," the chief says. "You're a laugh a minute."
The chuckles recede to a nervous halt.
"So," I ask, "to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit? You made it sound important on the phone, Chief."
He goes on to explain last night's events, and all the while, he and Linda seem to be watching to see how I'd react to the news. I express the proper shock, of course, including the revelation that Tommy Norton was the killer.
"I shouldn'
t tell you about any of this," he says with a smirk, "but giving you details of an investigation is becoming a habit with me."
He looks at Linda, and she nods her approval.
"Ethel claims her guardian angel descended from heaven and smote the killer with his own knife. She says he was virtually invisible, her angel, with a voice like velvet and short, curly blond hair like a lamb's."
My goodness, she really went overboard.
"She said that after he rescued her, he disappeared like a puff of white smoke, or more like a cloud." He looks right at me. "What do you think of that?"
"I'm inclined to say the old girl should lay off the brandy." I almost chuckle. Almost. Nobody else seems amused. "Still, you must admit, she sounds awfully fortunate."
"Yeah," Linda says, "I could use a guardian angel like that myself."
She keeps a straight face, but I swear there's a smile in her eyes. The chief looks at her with the same puzzled expression he had for me a few seconds ago.
I shake my head. "Tommy Norton. Who would have thought that? I would have bet anything that it was Norton—Mitchell, I mean."
"Yeah," he says, "I imagine we all would have put our money on Mitchell. Tommy even managed to evade surveillance last night."
Linda flinches, though I doubt the chief meant it personally. "That's my fault," she says, "since I was the one on surveillance."
"No, no, I didn't mean to blame," he says hurriedly. "I meant that Tommy Norton, of all people, didn't strike me as someone who could slip surveillance. The whole situation is odd."
"Yes," she says, "very odd."
"And you're sure," I ask, "that Tommy was responsible for all of the murders?"
"Yes, at least preliminarily. We have solid blood evidence on his hatchet and some blood spatter on his ski mask. We have shoe impressions that will match, I'm sure, and we have some fibers that will probably match his clothing. Lots of testing still to do. Also, it turns out he did yard work for Ethel, Melody Nesmith and John Adams, so besides the obvious connection, he may also have had easy access to their homes. We think Lindsey Merkham's murder was unplanned. All in all, I'd say it's a lock."
