Dying Games (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 6)

by Steve Robinson

  ‘Just drive. I’ll tell you when to turn.’

  They quickly came to a crossroads and Tayte began to slow down, awaiting instructions.

  ‘Pick up your speed,’ Westlake said, sounding aggravated. ‘Keep going straight until I say otherwise.’

  Tayte continued to do as he was told, saying nothing until his curiosity to know what Westlake was planning to do got the better of him.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked. ‘Are you going to kill me? I know you must want to.’

  Westlake’s top lip curled into a derisive snarl. ‘I’d love to put a bullet in your head right now, but that’s only going to happen if you push me.’ He sat forward and stared at Tayte until the weight of his presence forced Tayte to take his eyes off the road momentarily to look at him. Westlake shook his head. ‘You really don’t want to do that,’ he added, and then he sat back again. ‘Do as you’re told and I won’t hurt you.’

  Tayte wasn’t sure he believed that. Everything he knew about this man suggested he wanted to hurt him very much, but for now Westlake appeared to be showing restraint for some reason. Tayte wondered why, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. They continued in silence for several minutes, heading north on 17th Street until they reached a busy intersection with Route 1.

  ‘Turn right onto the highway,’ Westlake said. ‘Keep to the speed limit.’

  ‘Are we leaving town?’

  Westlake didn’t answer.

  ‘You know the FBI are going to find me. You can be sure they’re already looking for this car.’

  Westlake laughed to himself. ‘I’m counting on it. Now just shut up and drive.’

  They were not on Route 1 for long, which dispelled Tayte’s notion that they were leaving DC. They turned off on to Montana Avenue, tracking what appeared to be waste ground on their right, until they followed the road around it on to New York Avenue, which typically was busy with traffic. The area was remarkably run-down given its proximity to the nation’s capital. Several buildings in a poor state of repair, some of which were clearly abandoned, lined the street. They came to what had once been a car dealership, and Tayte noticed Westlake’s interest.

  ‘Turn off here,’ he said. ‘Pull onto the lot and take the car around back.’

  Tayte’s palms were sweating as he followed Westlake’s instructions. As he came to the back of the low brick building, whose windows were all either smashed or boarded up, he saw that these derelict buildings all backed on to the waste ground he’d previously seen. He thought that if Westlake did want to shoot him, this was a good place to do it.

  ‘Stop here,’ Westlake said, and Tayte pulled the car over. He didn’t like it that the car, Mavro’s car, was no longer visible from the road.

  ‘Shut off the engine and give me the key.’

  Tayte hesitated, and the muzzle of the gun Westlake was still holding was suddenly pressing into his temple. ‘Do it!’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Tayte took the key out of the ignition. ‘Here.’

  ‘Now get out, slowly. I have a surprise for you.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Inside the abandoned car dealership, the daylight from the gaps in the boards at the windows did nothing to make the place any more welcoming. Tayte was taken across the debris on the floor of what he imagined had once been a spotless car showroom, still wondering what Westlake had in store for him. A surprise of some sort, and certainly not a pleasant one, given the circumstances. Further in, they passed around the back of what had once been the reception desk, the gun in Westlake’s hand trained on Tayte the whole time, and then through a doorway that led into what evidently used to be the service area. There was a stack of old car batteries to his right, and ahead, in the low light, he could see two hydraulic ramps sitting side by side a few metres apart. Any tools left in the place when the business shut down were long gone. There was a single bare light bulb glowing through the window of a small office at the far end of the room. Westlake shoved Tayte towards it.

  ‘Your surprise is in there,’ he said, and although Tayte couldn’t see his face, he sensed Westlake was smiling.

  As they reached the door, Tayte felt Westlake’s hand press firmly down on his shoulder. He stopped and turned to face him.

  ‘You can’t go in just yet,’ Westlake said. ‘First I want you to sit in that chair.’

  Westlake pointed to a shabby swivel chair by the door. The black fabric was ripped in places, exposing the foam padding, and it had a heavy-looking metal base and castors. Tayte’s eyed narrowed as he wondered why Westlake wanted him to sit down.

  ‘I said take a seat!’

  Tayte lowered himself into the chair and Westlake stepped closer. There was a small steel filing cabinet beside the chair. Sitting on top of the cabinet was a roll of grey duct tape, which Tayte imagined Westlake must have put there earlier. He picked it up and tossed it into Tayte’s lap.

  ‘Now bind your feet and ankles to the base of the chair.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard what I said. Do it!’

  Tayte shook his head. He didn’t like where this was heading. ‘No, I won’t. If you’re planning to kill me, I’m not going to make it any easier for you.’

  Westlake leaned towards him. ‘I already said I wasn’t going to kill you unless you push me.’ He brought his gun up and pressed it to Tayte’s forehead. ‘Are you pushing me?’

  Tayte stared defiantly back into the man’s eyes for a moment, trying to read his intentions, but he couldn’t. The only way he was going to find out what Westlake had in store for him was to go along with this.

  ‘Okay, back off.’ He bent over his knees and wrapped the duct tape around his ankles and feet, securing them to the chair.

  ‘Good, now strap your left arm to the armrest.’

  As Tayte did as he was told, he pondered over this latest puzzle Westlake had set for him and how it had led him to a man who had been electrocuted while working for the Potomac Electric Power Company in 1922. Was Tayte going to be the victim this time? He certainly couldn’t shake the idea from his head that he was strapping himself into his own electric chair. It caused him to think back to the Exchange Saloon the day before, when he’d asked himself why Westlake didn’t just come after him and be done with it. Now he was telling himself to be careful what he wished for.

  As soon as Tayte had finished binding his left arm to the chair, Westlake tucked his gun back into the waistline of his jeans and secured Tayte’s right arm to the other armrest. Tayte gave no struggle. It seemed entirely pointless to do so. Westlake then used up the rest of the duct tape, strapping Tayte’s thighs to the seat and his chest to the backrest. Once he’d finished Tayte could barely move. He was entirely at Westlake’s disposal. Westlake stood back and smiled at his handiwork, then he wheeled Tayte into the office.

  As soon as they crossed the threshold, Tayte knew he was not going to be the Genie’s next victim. He knew this because he was looking right at the person Westlake had clearly singled out for his next murder. He was a grey-haired man in his late sixties, and most alarming to Tayte was the fact that he recognised him. He’d employed Tayte’s services in recent years, and while Tayte couldn’t recall his first name with everything that was going on, he knew his surname was Alexander. He was the descendant of John P. Alexander, former employee of the Potomac Electric Power Company. The man was similarly strapped down with duct tape, but not to a chair. He was secured to a large wheeled trolley that was propped up at a forty-five-degree angle against the edge of a table. There was also duct tape across his mouth to keep him quiet.

  ‘Surprise!’ Westlake said with a grin. ‘You remember George Alexander, don’t you? I’ve made sure he remembers you.’

  Tayte drew a deep breath in an ineffective attempt to calm himself as he looked at the unfortunate man before him, knowing there was nothing he could do for him. He was shirtless, and between the lines of duct tape around his body, Tayte could see that there were wires attached
to his chest and others connected to his head. Each connection was marked by a pool of dried blood where the wires had been inserted beneath his skin. Tayte could also see a heavy-duty cable running back to the door and out into the workshop area. He recalled the pile of car batteries he’d passed and it was instantly clear that Westlake planned to execute this man by electrocution, killing him in the manner of his ancestor.

  ‘I wanted you to watch him die,’ Westlake said, pushing Tayte further into the room. ‘I see you’re staring at my crude electrodes. Did you know that human skin can offer up to 100,000 ohms of resistance or more? Inside the body, though, it falls to as low as around three hundred ohms, hence the subcutaneous electrodes.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Come on, Tayte. You know why.’

  ‘His ancestor died in a manhole, nowhere near this place. You’re not replicating that death by killing him here. You’re cheating your own game.’

  ‘But it’s my game, isn’t it? I set the rules, and I’ve decided to throw in a bonus round.’

  ‘So I was never expected to work this one out? I had no chance to save this man?’

  ‘No. The reference I sent you this time was just to get you to that cemetery so I could pick you up and bring you here to watch.’

  Not for the first time, Tayte wondered if this really was Westlake’s game. He painted a smile on his face in an attempt to put him off his guard, and then playing to his ego, he said, ‘I have to commend you on the puzzle you sent me for Tiffany Nelson. That Library of Congress reference really had me stumped at first.’

  ‘But not for long,’ Westlake said, sourly.

  ‘No, but even so, I thought it particularly clever of you to hide a clue in the dedication for that book about early settlers of the Midwest.’

  ‘You’re not the only smart-ass in town,’ Westlake said, offering no contradiction. He pushed Tayte closer to his victim so that Tayte could look into the man’s eyes. They were wet with tears and wide with fear, and seeing him like that forced Tayte to focus all his attention on him. Alexander’s head seemed to shake, but it was strapped down with so much duct tape that it was hard to be sure.

  ‘I’ve got over twenty fully charged car batteries hooked up to this guy,’ Westlake said. ‘I measured their combined output at something close to three hundred volts, but it’s not so much the volts that kills you.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Tayte said with sarcasm. ‘It’s the current, right?’

  Westlake nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s all about the amps. With DC current, heart fibrillation occurs at between three hundred and five hundred milliamps. Doesn’t sound much, does it?’

  Tayte didn’t answer.

  ‘At five hundred milliamps, with the electricity making the right paths through the body, it can take just a fifth of a second to kill a man, which is why I’ve plugged my electrodes in so deeply—to literally cut through the skin’s resistance. Three hundred volts divided by three hundred ohms of resistance equals a draw of one amp, which I’m sure you’ve already worked out is twice the lethal amount, just to be sure. Time to death is effectively reduced to one-tenth of a second, so I don’t think anyone coming through that door is going to be able to pull these wires out in time to save him, do you?’

  ‘Coming through the door?’ Tayte repeated.

  Westlake pointed to the top of the door, where Tayte could see a metal box with more wires coming from it.

  ‘It’s a simple switch mechanism. It triggers when the door opens, once I’ve powered everything up, of course, which I’ll do on my way out. The switch powers a latching relay, which in turn makes the circuit that fries our mutual friend here.’

  ‘You’re a sick man, Westlake. You need help.’

  Westlake scoffed. ‘Yes, I do, and I’m getting it right now. It’s called self-help and it’s making me feel a whole lot better already. Is your phone switched on?’

  ‘My phone?’

  ‘Yes, your cell phone. Is it on?’

  Tayte nodded.

  ‘Good. I imagine the FBI is close to pinpointing your signal about now. They should be here soon.’

  With that Westlake put two strips of duct tape over Tayte’s mouth. ‘I don’t want you calling out and giving the game away.’ He went back to the door. ‘I’ll leave the light on,’ he added as he left. ‘So you don’t miss anything.’

  As soon as Westlake had gone, Tayte tried to free himself, hoping to exert enough strength to break through the duct tape so that he could reach out and pull those wires from George Alexander’s chest and head before it was too late. He figured he only needed to free one of his arms, but they were both strapped down with so much tape that after several minutes of trying and getting nowhere, he realised it just wasn’t going to happen. He stopped, panting heavily, and looked at his former client, who was staring right back at him with those fearful eyes. He wanted to tell him that he was so very sorry, and he hoped his own eyes conveyed that as they continued to look at one another. Tayte didn’t know how much time he had to save him, but he knew he had to keep trying.

  He rested a moment to recover his strength. He looked down at his hands and saw that his wrists were already red raw from the pressure he’d put on them. He didn’t care if they were bleeding—a few cuts and bruises were a small price to pay as far as he was concerned. He tried to recall the assignment that had brought George Alexander to call upon his genealogical services, and he remembered that he came from a large family that was going to miss him dearly if Tayte couldn’t prevent his murder.

  He looked around for something that might offer him a way to do that, but the room was largely empty, apart from a few cupboards and metal shelves. Nothing gave him any inspiration. He had to get out of that chair. Frustration hit him hard and he began to rock from side to side, pulling at the armrests again until his wrists burned. The chair moved a little on its castors, but there was no way to effectively control its direction. He thought to tip the chair over, which he imagined might put enough force on some of the duct tape to at least stretch it, but because of the wheels he couldn’t seem to get enough momentum going before the chair began to slide. Tayte stopped again, suddenly disturbed by Westlake’s inhumanity, knowing it demonstrated a particular kind of cruelty to have brought him here to watch the murder of yet another victim.

  Tayte was breathing hard now from his exertions. It was becoming difficult to get enough oxygen through his nose alone, and Westlake had strapped his chest to the chair in such a way that he was unable to fully expand it. His breathing was accordingly shallow and loud. Over the sound he could hear the hum of the traffic passing by on New York Avenue as the people of DC went about their lives oblivious to what was going on less than a hundred metres from them. Then, as his breathing slowed and the room became quiet again, he heard another sound that chilled him to his core. It was the sound of one or more vehicles approaching. A moment later he heard car doors slam shut and he began to pull at the duct tape again. George Alexander had clearly heard the vehicles, too, because he also began to twist and writhe, but it was to no avail.

  Outside the window that looked into the workshop area, Tayte saw the first of the FBI agents enter. He recognised him as Special Agent Jerome Martinez. He was with another agent Tayte hadn’t seen before. They were wearing tactical vests and both had their sidearms drawn ahead of them as they came in. Tayte began to shout into his gag, but nothing discernible came out. He was shouting for them to stay back and not enter the room, but all he imagined they saw was a man in peril crying out for help. He began to shake his head vigorously, but it did no good.

  ‘In here!’ Martinez called, and as they ran to what they surely believed was Tayte’s rescue, all he could do was look back into George Alexander’s eyes, and in his mind tell him over and over that he was so very sorry.

  Fifteen minutes later, Tayte was sitting in the back of SAC Reese’s car with a blanket around his shoulders as more and more FBI and police vehicles arrived at the scene. He was sta
ring vacantly at the headrest in front of him, insensible to the commotion, still shaking from the shock of being forced to witness the grotesque electrocution of George Alexander. Frankie Mavro was sitting beside him to his right, and SAC Reese was sitting half in and half out of the car to his left.

  ‘There’s no chance he’s still alive?’ Tayte asked. He didn’t want to believe Alexander was dead, even though he’d seen it happen right in front of his eyes.

  Reese shook his head. ‘He’s gone, Mr Tayte. I’m sorry. We did everything we could.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, JT,’ Mavro said. ‘Don’t blame yourself.’

  The trouble was that Tayte did blame himself, and he would continue to blame himself as long as he lived for everything that was happening to these people. ‘I’d like to go and see his family. I want to see the families of all the victims.’

  ‘In time,’ Reese said. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea right now.’

  Tayte nodded at the headrest, silently agreeing that he was probably the last person any of the victims’ family members wanted to see. He thought most would sooner slap his face than listen to his apologies and words of condolence. He remained silent for several seconds, breathing slowly to help calm himself, thinking back over the conversation he’d had with Adam Westlake inside the building.

  He turned to Reese. ‘Westlake isn’t the Genie.’

  ‘Say that again,’ Reese said, frowning.

  ‘This isn’t Westlake’s game. He’s abducting these people, sure, and he’s setting up their deaths, but he’s not the genealogist behind these puzzles being sent to me. I don’t believe Westlake knows a thing about them.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Mavro asked.

  ‘I started talking to Westlake about the previous puzzle. I mentioned the book we went to the Library of Congress to take a look at.’

  ‘Tales of Romance.’

  ‘Exactly. Only I said it was a book about early settlers of the Midwest. It was just something I thought up at random, but Westlake didn’t bat an eyelid. He just assumed it was right because he had no idea. I’m sure he’s a clever man, but he’s not the genealogist working all this out. The real Genie is someone working behind the scenes, telling Westlake what to do.’