by John Lutz
“Jesus, Palmer! This New Jersey thing has nothing to do with us. They didn’t find just her torso. And they identified her immediately. If the press is tying it in with the Torso Murders, they’re wrong.”
“I’d like to agree with you, but I’m having a tough time.” Stone puffed up his cheeks, blew out some air. “The three of us have worked together for a lot of years.”
“So let’s stop gassing to each other about what we both already know. I’d ask what’s bothering you, Palmer, because you’re obviously bothered, but I can guess what it is. I know why you wanted to see me this morning.”
“Don’t bother to guess,” Stone said. “I’ve got an inkling of a suspicion your brother killed this woman.”
“Victor? Don’t believe it, Palmer.”
“I didn’t say I believed it.”
“But you’re tilting in that direction.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? He’s been acting strange lately, and the way the woman—Ruth somebody—died, it sure put me in mind of Victor.”
“Was Ruth a client, Palmer?”
“You know she wasn’t.”
“Then what would be Victor’s motivation? Why would he do one off the books?”
“I can’t answer that for sure, Gloria. But speaking of books, I’ve been to Victor’s apartment and seen his. I noticed some new additions. Brand-new-looking books on Vlad the Impaler. You know who he was?”
“Of course. I’m not ignorant, Palmer. He lived during the Middle Ages, I think. Bad guy. Terrorized his enemies by impaling people and hoisting them up on poles driven into the ground. Weird guy. Sick.”
“Your brother seems awfully interested in him.”
“Victor’s always been into history and biography. What’s that got to do with motive?”
“I’m wondering,” Stone said, “if maybe Victor’s come to enjoy that aspect of his work so much that he’s moonlighting—not for pay, just for pleasure.”
“You’re suggesting my brother’s some kind of sick sadist.” Gloria fixed her onyx eyes on him. He couldn’t look away. “Listen to me close, Palmer. Victor didn’t kill that woman.”
“Then who did?”
“Tom Coulter.”
“I kind of doubt it.”
“Then maybe it was someone who’s read about the Torso Murders or followed them on TV. Some guy who leaned toward sadism to begin with and decided to get in on the act. Only for him, there was no reason to sever the head and limbs. He didn’t care if the body was identified.”
“He didn’t expect the body to be found,” Stone pointed out.
Gloria didn’t change expression. It was true that she and Victor hadn’t expected the body to be found. Acres and acres of trash, every kind of refuse, and Ruth Malpass had been five feet down in it, waiting to be shoved into a vast pit of trash. It was a fluke that she was found.
Gloria crossed her arms and spread her feet wide, becoming angry, and glared at Stone. “If you really suspect Victor of killing this woman, I can put your mind at ease. During the time the police say she was killed, he was with me. We were in his apartment. We take turns preparing each other a gourmet dinner once a week. Last time, it was Victor’s turn. We were enjoying lobster lasagna and a good wine when that woman was killed.”
“Victor never left your sight?”
“Not for more than five minutes, if that long. And I stayed until almost midnight.”
“Why so late?”
“We got to talking about business and lost track of time. I know it was close to midnight because I looked at my watch and told him how late it was.”
Stone sighed, making Gloria wonder if he might be feigning relief. You could never tell for sure with Palmer. The discovery of Ruth’s body had complicated things.
“Do me a favor,” Stone said. “Even if you don’t take what I’m saying seriously, keep an eye on your brother. We don’t really know people, even the ones closest to us.”
“I know Victor,” Gloria said. “He’s like me. We’re businesspeople first and foremost. As you are, Palmer. We’re not sadists or devil worshipers. We pray to profit and to the good Lord.”
“In that order?”
She flashed a crooked grin. “’Fraid so.”
“People can change, even the best people. I don’t want Victor doing anything dangerous, either for him or for the company.”
“He isn’t, I’m sure.”
“Still, will you watch him? If there are any changes, you might be the first to notice.”
Gloria uncrossed her arms and loosened her stance. She was no longer intractable. Her expression suggested that, however unlikely, Stone might have a point. She had to concede him that. “I’ll watch him, Palmer. If he starts behaving strangely, I’ll let you know.”
Stone stood up behind his desk wearing the smile she knew so well, the inclusive, reassuring one that lulled the marks.
“I’m counting on you, Gloria.”
“You’ve always been able to do that, Palmer. Nothing’s changed.”
As she left the office she was smiling, too. Her smile was nothing like Palmer Stone’s.
She was thinking about Ruth Malpass.
48
Tom Coulter sat straight up in bed.
Even though it was three a.m. he’d been sleeping lightly in his room at the Tumble Onn Inn Motel. Maybe he’d been dreaming, or maybe he’d been waking up and his imagination had gone on a romp. Either way, he was scared. He made an effort to control his breathing. He’d been waking up like this lately, feeling all tight inside, out of breath.
He tried his version of mental discipline to ease his tension, getting tough with himself.
What the hell are you afraid of, you big pussy, except every cop in the country wants to kill you?
Didn’t work.
He fell back on the bed, his eyes wide open.
The Tumble Onn Inn was just outside of Burback, Louisiana. It was where Coulter’s flight from the law had left him, this ramshackle clapboard building constructed in a U around a swimming pool full of algae. The outside walls had once been white but were now a dull gray mottled with mold. There were rust-colored vertical stains where the gutters leaked.
At least it wasn’t the kind of place where the staff was curious about the guests. The old guy at the desk wore rimless glasses held together by black electricians’ tape and looked as if he’d been hired especially for the motel to give it local color. He hadn’t raised an eyebrow when Coulter paid cash. He was used to guests who didn’t qualify for credit cards. Coulter didn’t worry much about him.
On the other hand, the old bastard probably watched TV, and Coulter’s name and image were all over the damned news channels. They kept using the photo he hated, the one with his hair all messed up and with his bad teeth showing. Damned thing made him look ignorant. Made him look like a criminal.
The rattling old air conditioner had stopped working since Coulter had gone to bed and fallen into an uneasy sleep hastened by cheap vodka. Either that or the power was off again. It was close and hot in the cruddy little room. There was no sound except for the insects buzzing outside in the darkness.
Coulter was breathing okay now. He tried to relax, even though he was sure something had awoken him. He told himself it might have been anything. A cat, or maybe even some kind of wild animal, making a noise. A possum. There had to be plenty of them around. There seemed to be a dead one every two or three miles of road.
He was wearing only his jockey shorts, trying to keep as cool as possible, but his body was coated with oily perspiration. Too close to the damned swamp. Something soft, probably a moth, brushed his forehead, and he swiped at it with his right hand, not really expecting to make contact.
This wasn’t how he’d foreseen things. His notoriety had overwhelmed him. Not that he didn’t still enjoy being a genuine celebrity. But no matter where he went he could be sure people had heard or read about him and probably seen his photo. It was always a worry. That kind of thing could be damne
d wearying if the law was itching to hang a string of murder raps around your neck. The irony was, he’d never set out to kill anyone. He wasn’t that sort of guy. This had all been done to him, a series of bad breaks, most of them brought on by mistakes made by other people. All he’d done was react to a shitload of bad luck. Another example of how unfair life was to him.
Nothing had changed from the time he’d jolted awake and sat up on the sagging mattress. No sound. No movement of light or shadow. No stirring of air. Beads of sweat continued to form and trickle down his bare neck and arms.
He made himself relax and let the weariness close in on him again.
Everything’s gonna be okay, at least for a while. Go back to sleep….
His eyes flew open.
No doubt about it this time. Very faintly in the night, the unmistakable crunching sound of tires rolling slowly over packed gravel.
Something had driven into the parking area outside the rooms.
Coulter slid out of bed and went to the window. He crouched down and parted the blinds and peered out into almost total blackness. A sliver of moon provided the only light. He gave his eyes a minute or so to adjust, and then figured, hell, they didn’t need it, since he’d been sitting like a mushroom in a dark room.
He saw nothing out there but the same six cars that had been parked in front of rooms when he’d pulled in earlier that evening. They were all older models, one of them a vintage ’98 Olds with a flat front tire. Coulter liked and knew about cars. He’d stolen a lot of them in his younger days and figured the Olds would have been a collector’s item if it weren’t such a rust bucket.
Staying in a low crouch, he shifted his weight and glanced in the other direction over the sill. Parked two spaces down from his room was the late-model black Ford F-100 pickup he’d stolen two days ago. Faint moonlight glimmered off its fender. It looked like a gigantic toy on drastically oversized tires. Which was maybe what it was.
Another sound!
It might have been a car door shutting as quietly as possible, pulled closed, and latched.
Something’s going on out there, all right.
Coulter backpedaled away from the window to where his Levi’s were wadded on a chair. He hurriedly slipped into them, then yanked a T-shirt over his head. He thought about going barefoot, then changed his mind and took the time to work his feet, sockless, into his boots. Sweat was pouring off him, stinging the corners of his eyes.
He picked up the .38 handgun from the nightstand by the bed and held it in his left hand while he dug the truck keys from his pants pocket with his right. The gun was a blue steel semiautomatic with a checkered wood grip. He’d stolen it in Baton Rouge and had never fired it. Didn’t even know for sure if it worked. He thumbed the safety off. Then he moved to the door.
Coulter rotated the knob with a trembling hand and slowly opened the door a few inches.
Sultry night air flowed in, carrying the fetid stench of the nearby swamp. He could see nothing outside but the dark parking lot, the shadowy bulks of cars nosed into spaces outside the identical rooms. He glanced to his right. The big Ford pickup, resting high on its huge knobby tires, looked tantalizingly close.
No movement out there. No sound other than the drone of insects. Not even a car passing on the state road, not at three in the morning. And the big trucks didn’t use this narrow, meandering road, with the interstate only about ten miles away running almost parallel to it.
Coulter felt his confidence returning. Maybe all he’d heard was some guy going out to his car because he’d forgotten his cigarettes. Something like that. Nervous as Coulter was, maybe he’d gotten himself all in a dither over nothing.
Maybe not.
Either way, I ain’t goin’ back to sleep. I’m outta here.
He stepped all the way outside, moving cautiously in his cowboy boots. His crunching footfalls were barely audible in the still night as he made his way toward the truck. The ignition key was tight between his fingers, ready to insert and twist. He was squeezing it so hard he felt it cutting into his flesh. In his left hand, he still carried the gun.
Maybe I should switch. Can’t shoot good left-handed.
Too late for that.
He made it to within ten feet of the truck, then used the key fob to unlock the doors. A dim light came on inside the truck’s cab. He straightened up and moved faster, not worrying now about the noise, and opened the driver’s-side door and swung himself up behind the steering wheel.
Wham!
A blinding light hit him in the face like something solid. He reeled back even as he reached forward. Amazingly, the ignition key found its slot. Red and blue flashing lights were all around him now, and sirens began to yowl.
Ignoring the maelstrom of light and noise, he slammed the shift selector into reverse, twisted the steering wheel as he stomped on the gas. Gravel flew as the truck did a 180-degree spin. The truck had stopped, but was still rocking as he rammed the selector into drive, and headed hell for leather for the driveway leading to the state road.
The truck’s big engine roared with power as Coulter laid the gun on the seat beside him and hunched over the steering wheel. He was gripping the wheel with both slippery hands. Something made a loud crack behind his right ear. Glass breaking. Like a rock had been hurled through it. Only he knew it hadn’t been a rock.
Shooting at me! Jesus!
His right foot mashed down on the accelerator even harder. Gravel, dirt, large rocks were hurled into the air off the knobby tires as the truck lurched forward. Sonuvabitch has got power, he thought, as he felt himself pressed backward in his seat. There was a bump that made him rise off the seat cushion, and the steering wheel writhed in his hand. The truck leaned left and he yanked the wheel right.
Then he was out of the motel’s parking lot and picking up speed on the paved road. The flashing colored lights, the yowling sirens, were still there, flitting this way and that in the darkness, but they were behind him now. There was nothing ahead but black road, and a faint yellow line snaking away into the night, leading toward freedom.
The truck cab got brighter. He glanced in his right outside mirror and was almost blinded by headlights that had slid in close behind him. The mirror exploded as a bullet caught it. He mashed down harder on the accelerator, putting distance between him and the headlights.
Coulter thought he should shoot back. He owed it to himself. And maybe it’d make the State Patrol or whoever the hell they were let up some on the gas. Gripping the wheel tight with his left hand, he picked up the gun with his right.
Shootin’ hand. Look out now!
This was going to be awkward. He made sure the truck was aimed straight ahead, held on to the steering wheel with his left hand, and twisted his body so he could get his right arm out the window and shoot behind him.
The gun worked okay. He managed to get off a shot but had no way of knowing if it had hit anything. The car hit a bump just as he was about to squeeze the trigger again, and the sudden jolt made him bump his wrist against the hard window frame, knocking the gun from his grasp. It dropped down and away onto the pavement.
In the shitpot now!
He turned back so he was sitting straight, staring out through the windshield and steering with both hands. Whoever was chasing him had gotten close again. The lights in the rearview mirror were blinding, even though the mirror was set for nighttime vision. He reached up and twisted it so the light was deflected. No need to look behind him. He knew they were there.
Just drive, goddamnit. Forget about the gun. You wasn’t gonna hit anything anyway.
Drive!
Coulter saw a county road intersecting with the state road, made up his mind in an instant, and swung left. This road was narrower than the one he’d been on, and bumpier. He knew what he had to find. The kind of turnoff where the big four-wheel-drive truck could go and low-slung police cars made for highway pursuit couldn’t follow. That was his only real chance to escape the shitstorm his bad luck had put him
in.
If I can just make it into the swamp I can…think of something….
The headlights were still back there. The road began to wind. A bullet sparked off the already damaged outside mirror, startling Coulter. But he didn’t lose control of the truck. He kept his head. He was learning all about himself, and he liked it. He had the balls for more than breaking and entering. He was a goddamned Jesse James.
As the truck roared and sped along, the swamp seemed to move in closer on either side. Within half a mile he saw what he needed, a crude wooden sign indicating a turnoff ahead. As he flashed past it, he couldn’t even read what it said, but he put light pressure on the brake pedal, getting ready.
Then there it was on his left, an opening in the swamp. It wasn’t much more than flattened grass, but enough of a road to provide access for the big truck. Just enough.
Luck from shit to gold!
As Coulter yanked the steering wheel to the left, the truck leaned hard and went up on two wheels. Then it dropped back and tracked perfectly onto the narrow, grassy road. As soon as he straightened it out, it flew up in the air, and Coulter felt the top of his head hit the headliner. As he plopped back down in his seat, he fumbled and found a firm grip on the steering wheel. He clenched his teeth and followed the truck’s headlight beams into the swamp.
This was goddamned working. This was what he wanted. There was another, smaller bump, then rooster tails of water rose high and away from the front wheels and the truck rocked to a dead stop.
Coulter’s heart stopped with it.
Here was his lousy luck again. He should have expected it. It was his role in life to have the rug yanked out from under him. God had had it in for him from the beginning.
He jammed the selector into a lower gear and played the gas pedal. Mud and rocks slammed against the insides of the fenders, but the truck didn’t budge. Wasn’t this thing supposed to have four-wheel drive?
Don’t let me down now! Please! C’mon! C’mon!
If God wouldn’t help him, maybe the devil would. Or the all-powerful God of Trucks and Fools. The big engine roared. The oversized tires spun free and threw more mud, found traction, and the truck lurched forward and picked up speed.
