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Trent jammed his foot on the accelerator and the Crown Vic shot across the parking lot, the tires squealing and the underbody scraping the asphalt as he wheeled over crumbly potholes onto the road.
He took the bends in the winding country road at breakneck speeds, steering the car toward Atlanta. “Call headquarters on the car radio,” he said to Priest with a cautious glance in the rearview mirror.
The evening was pitch black with occasional snow. The wind pounced off the land in great gusts, and icy blasts rattled the car.
Priest was slumped against the window clutching his chest. “Can’t . . . chance it,” he said through gritted teeth. “Killer might pick it up . . .”
“Priest, the killer is Butler!”
“If we call . . . they’ll close the net. I have to get to the station . . .”
Trent spotted an interchange in the distance that would deposit them onto the interstate. “I’ll take I-85. That’s the fastest route.”
Priest coughed and stirred. “No. Only a matter of time before they set up roadblocks. Take 19 south; it’s deserted . . . The turn is just past the John Deere store.”
Trent decided to quit trying to outthink Priest. He nodded and said, “Show me where.”
Priest pointed and Trent made the turn. As he accelerated on the narrow blacktop he glanced in his rearview mirror. Two state police cars with light bars flashing sped past in the dark toward the shootout.
What a day, Trent breathed, as the blaring sirens faded. The tops of the skyscrapers were clearly visible ahead, gleaming palely against the sky. Its lower levels were indistinct, merging into a fog that had settled over the city.
He turned a thirty minute trip into twenty and was coasting into Midtown when Priest reached for the microphone that was in a cradle bolted to the dash. Trent grabbed the microphone and pulled the connection from the radio. Then he stopped on a side street off Monroe.
“I’ll call you an ambulance, Priest. But first I’m getting out.”
“Y-you’re resisting arrest; have to come in . . .”
“No. You deal with your scandal. I’ll find Chloe.”
Chapter 44
Trent surveyed his apartment and for some reason it didn’t feel like his home. He didn’t like it, or Midtown, and he glanced with irritation at the bright city lights as he tried to wrestle down the anxiety of the last few days.
He made up his mind: he was tired of the gangs, Jake and Elwood, McClure and the crooked cops, and the Midtown Murderer. They’d called him to do battle, and now he wanted to have the fight over with. He also knew his luck wouldn’t hold much longer; he had to strike quick.
Has to be Butler’s phone, he thought, studying the cheap, throwaway phone Anima had given him. Must be how he contacts Triple and his gangsters. He keyed into the main menu and discovered that Butler had placed a call minutes before Jack was murdered. He pressed the view key and copied down the number.
He thought of the gangster he had beat with a tire iron outside the courtroom and laughed. That act of violence was tame compared to what he was about to do. Replacing his rage with a bloodthirsty calm, he concocted a plan with a single-minded determination that he hadn’t felt in ages.
He dialed the number, feeling confident that if he could get Triple or one of his thugs out in the open, he would be one step closer to finding Chloe.
On the fourth ring a flat voice picked up. “Yeah?”
Trent shifted the cell phone from one ear to the other. “Roe here,” he whispered. “Put Triple on the phone.”
“I think you got the wrong number; I’m gonna hang up.”
“Wait. It’s me.” The lies flowed easily now, practiced many times in his mind. “I found the cell phone; a hobo had it. Guy has pink hair and a beard and hangs out at the Piedmont Park gazebo. Triple needs to send someone into the park tomorrow morning and take him out.”
“Should be simple enough; I’ll send two shooters just to make sure.”
“Tell Triple I iced Priest and Palmer.”
“Hang on. He’s here, but I have to go downstairs and find him.”
“I can’t wait. Tell him Dana’s hurt bad and I gotta get rid of him.”
“OK.”
An hour later, Trent studied his appearance in the bathroom mirror. The face of an executioner, he thought, wondering if he would get away with it.
He pulled on his special tattered coat and toyed with the mannequin’s hand that hung from the sleeve. The fingers were crooked and gnarled, and a sewing needle held a cigarette in the V of the index and middle finger.
The fake hand would fool anyone who didn’t study it too closely. The real surprise was behind the prop: a bone-handled knife was nestled in his palm, and the razor-sharp blade was stuck into the back of the prop.
He practiced his raspy voice and waved the knife handle. “Hey, buddy, got a light?” That’s when he’d make his play. Triple’s thugs were in for a hell of a surprise.
Trent placed a dark red, hardcover King James Bible with gold-page edges into his coat pocket. It was hollow, and inside was a Sig Sauer 9mm loaded with hollow points that he’d scored from a bartender downtown. Firing the gun in the park would mean something had gone drastically wrong, but he thought it was wise to have a contingency plan.
He knew he wasn’t coming back, so he pocked the container of Percs. He was still sore from the beatings and the Percs had helped him sleep. And when this was all over, and if he was still alive, he might want to sleep for a very long time.
He was hefting his Remington 12-gauge pump with a sawed-off barrel and wondering if he should take it with him when they came. Four of them, skilled enough to know not to drive their car too close to his office. But the driver had left his headlights on a second to long, enough time to alert Trent they were coming.
He gauged the distance they had to walk and counted the seconds.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
The door blew inward at four, Trent unleashing a fusillade that was every bit the equal of his would-be killers. The roar from his shotgun drowned out the screams, and the room was instantly full of bitter smoke; chips of wood and plaster flew everywhere. Spent shell casings were raining down, and the coppery smell of blood mixed with the sulfur and cordite. It was over in ten seconds. He dropped the shotgun, dashed out the ruined door, and ran away from his office coughing and trailing a cloud of smoke. His head was still ringing from the concussion of the shots as the reality of the moment struck him. The fact that the Kings wouldn’t stop with these four thugs, especially since he had so easily executed them, was no less a reality than the fact that his time in Atlanta was over.
Chapter 45
Early Christmas Eve morning, Trent pushed a shopping cart through the Fourteenth Street entrance of Piedmont Park. The early-morning light had begun to nudge against the gradually dying night sky that was streaked with wispy strands of wind-torn clouds.
Hunched over and mumbling to himself, he hoped he looked like a harmless old man taking a winter’s morning stroll as he worked his way around the loop road past the ballfields.
He stopped occasionally and examined the park with a pair of small collapsible binoculars, adjusting the focal dial as he searched for park security or policemen. The eye-watering cold had kept the pedestrian traffic to a minimum.
The sidewalk branched off to his right and became a footbridge spanning Lake Clara Meer. Connecting the two halves of the bridge was a stone-work gazebo with polished granite pillars and a copper roof that rose sharp as a pencil.
Triple’s thugs were inside, drinking beer from cans and belching after every swallow.
Cowboy and a tattooed heavyweight, Trent thought, making one last sweep of the park. It was clear. Nothing for it, then, he thought, his heart beating in his chest like a fist pounding on a door as he pushed the cart onto the bridge.
Cowboy was tall and thin; he wore jeans, an Oakland Raider’s jacket, and a Stetson. Heavyweight wore denim overalls; thick
pelts of hair covered the crude dragon tattoos on his forearms.
Trent waved the fake hand. “Hey, buddy, got a light?”
“Depends,” heavyweight said, exposing his rotten teeth. “You seen a hobo with pink hair and a beard?”
Trent shuffled away from the cart and raised the fake hand. “He’s on his way over from the restrooms.”
Cowboy nodded at heavyweight. “Give the bum a light.”
When heavyweight held out the lighter, Trent flicked his arm down. The prop clattered onto the stone floor, and he sprang, slashing the blade across the man’s neck. Bright red blood flooded from the gaping wound as the thug toppled to the floor.
Trent leapt toward Cowboy who was tugging a pistol out of his waistband. Trent watched the gun coming up to point at him, then rammed the palm of his hand down, deflecting Cowboy’s wrist as the gun fired. The unsilenced shot cracked loudly across the park and the spent round ricocheted harmlessly off a metal bin.
Trent shattered Cowboy’s jaw with a vicious elbow strike. He sank to the floor with his eyes closed. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth.
While the echo of the shot bounced inside Trent’s brain he searched the bodies for an address book or cell phone. Not a fucking thing, he thought, flattening out the thug’s hand and amputating the ring finger. He felt the blade glide through the gristly sinew and crack the bone; then he pulled a diamond-studded ring off the bloody stub. This was rough stuff, but then these were rough people.
Pocketing the finger and ring, Trent spotted a business card that had fallen from the thug’s pocket. He scooped it up then dashed across the bridge toward the Park Street entrance.
Out of his peripheral vision he spotted an attractive lady wearing blue jeans and a leather coat. That look on her face: astonishment or terror? Trent chuckled. Obviously she had never seen a wino sprint like an Olympic track star.
Then he noticed that she had wavy brown hair and was standing on crutches. Jesus H. Christ! Rikki Clay!
He heard angry growling and glanced to his right. A large German shepherd dog was charging away from him toward a wild Doberman who was bounding out of the hedge.
Trent didn’t make the connection that Rikki was holding a recoiling dog leash and that the shepherd’s collar was attached to it by means of a taut nylon cord. He hit the rope and the bible went airborne as he toppled forward on his belly.
Trent remained full-length on the asphalt. He was numb and his ears tingled; the blood had drained from his face. He could hear Rikki screaming from a long way off. He wanted to disappear. Become a nobody.
A tiny speech bubble was rising from deep in his mind. The words finally broke through the quicksand and came to his rescue: On your knees! His limbs responded and he felt himself rallying. Steady now. Untangle the rope. Why did it go slack?
Rikki continued to scream.
“Aw shit,” Trent said, suddenly understanding it. He turned in time to glimpse the shepherd in midair, fangs bared, leaping at him.
Chapter 46
The beast pounced on Trent, its menacing muzzle aiming for his neck. Trent tried to shove the shepherd back, but its weight was more than he expected, and he fell again to the ground. The forelegs of the powerful dog struck his chest as it tried to clamp its fangs into his throat.
Trent fought desperately to ward it off. With swift blows from his fists, he pounded at the dog’s head, but it paid no heed to his punches, instead tearing into his upper arm and sinking its fangs deeper and deeper, until blood oozed from the bites.
The agonizing sounds caught the attention of the Doberman who leaped onto the back of the shepherd. Angry snarls erupted as the two dogs rolled over, engaged in a ferocious battle. Trent jumped to his feet and backed away from the cruel contest.
The Doberman was more agile than its opponent, tearing at its flesh, until a howl of pain, edged with profound terror broke from the shepherd.
Fearing for the shepherd’s life, Trent retrieved his Sig Sauer and aimed carefully at the whirling, biting knot of bodies. The Doberman was mauling its enemy in a determined effort to kill when Trent squeezed the trigger.
There was a sharp crack, and the Doberman fell to the ground. Blood spurted from its torn throat and it writhed in its death throes. The shepherd stood on trembling legs and fled for its life.
Rikki screamed. Not a long scream, but sharp with shock.
Trent felt his torn biceps and said, “Sorry, but he was killing your dog.”
She said, “You just fucking shot him; you just . . . I mean, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. But that Doberman was like those gangsters; they never stop attacking the innocents. And I don’t see the police defending anyone, so I’m doing it myself.”
Rikki’s mouth was a bit wider than usual, and she couldn’t take her eyes off the dead dog. Otherwise she seemed perfectly normal. “Are you the Midtown Murderer?”
“Yes. Killing the gangsters is the only way to rid this city of fear and drugs.”
“So you dish out justice as you see fit?” Her eyes locked on his.
“A personal vendetta is far superior to our criminal justice system,” Trent said, clinging to his newfound fiction. “Besides, I’m making Atlanta safer.”
She tilted her head to one side in order to observe him from a better angle. “Doesn’t that make you a monster as well; one that is every bit as evil as the gangsters?”
Good question. He didn’t have an answer. “Take care of that guard dog,” he said, turning to run. “He’s better than a gun.”
“Chief, come back!” Rikki screamed. “Police, police, someone call 911!”
Trent made a hot-rubber getaway in a stolen black Mercedes, knocking over a sawhorse with red stripes poised like a sentinel in the road. Hell, it’s not my car, he thought, sparking a cigarette then tearing the wig off.
He found the deserted dead-end road where the only sign of life were three half-finished spec homes that had stayed that way since the contractor went belly up when the housing market collapsed. He opened the double doors of the two-car garage and stashed the Mercedes inside. After the doors were closed, his blood pressure dropped and he slowly reentered the atmosphere.
I did it, he thought, running his fingers across his scraped elbows and examining the two half-moon cavities of bloody flesh. In spite of two bad-ass dogs, I pulled it off.
Perhaps he should go to the Midtown Medical Clinic. Have an anti-tetanus shot. Maybe he should call Rikki and make a full confession. Then he thought about the electric chair. No confession.
He did call Atlanta’s senior crime reporter on Butler’s cell phone.
“Atlanta Constitution. Jones speaking.”
“I’m the Midtown Murderer; I just dusted two scumbag gangsters in Piedmont Park. I’m on a mission to wipe out as many thugs as I can.”
“Wait—”
Trent hung up. He felt calmly satisfied as he found a can of black spray paint, some masking tape, and old newspapers on a shelf. Then he taped the newspapers around the red moldings on his Ducati and sprayed them black. Should work, he thought, touching up a spot on the gas tank, then stopping to admire his handiwork. He gave the paint a few minutes to dry then pulled his helmet on and rolled his bike out of the garage.
He drove to the Lennox Mall and purchased a backpack, a few long-sleeve shirts, jeans, and toiletries to get him through the next two days. While he shopped, he promised himself to never again kill anyone in a public park.
Chapter 47
On the eve of Christmas Trent sat at a high top table by the window of a Caribou Coffee a block away from the Piedmont Secure Storage facility. Outside the streets were slick and empty; the sleet and wind were keeping people home. A few tables were occupied by Georgia Tech students or street people with enough change for a cup of coffee. Based on his appearance, Trent felt he could belong to either group.
He was sipping a tall latte when Radcliff took a seat across from him. “Why are you here and what do you want?” he said, ke
eping his hand on his side-piece.
At that point Trent had an urge to run. He wished he had. He looked around the room to make sure there was no one who could hear them; there was no one. “Just hear me out.”
“Hear you out?” Radcliff whispered. “You are so fucking wanted. Four dead gangsters in your office; your bloody prints on the murder weapon. Two thugs and a dog shot dead in Piedmont Park; I’m sure it’s got your signature all over it. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t collar you now?”
“Sometimes the police shouldn’t be involved.”
Radcliff closed his eyes and pinched his nose between his index finger and his thumb. “Maybe so, but as a general rule spree killers shouldn’t be free to roam the general public.” His eyes remained closed.
Trent picked at a croissant and said, “Thing is, Radcliff, you’re the only one I trust.”
He opened his eyes and stared at Trent. “Trust? Trust me to do what?”
“To help me cut a deal with an honest person at the Midtown Police Plaza concerning a private and confidential matter,” he said, waiting for the question ‘why?’
Radcliff softened. “That person may be hard to find,” he said, stirring four packs of sugar into his cup. “The coffee bought you five minutes; if you don’t have enough in the till, I’m taking you in.”
“I have by chance stumbled on some information,” Trent said, adjusting his watchman’ cap low over his ears. He hesitated before using the word ‘secret.’
“Who says so?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because every crooked cop and gangster in Atlanta is trying to kill me to get the information. Therefore, I believe lives are at risk.”
Radcliff sat motionless for a moment then said, “There are other avenues available; have you considered handing it over to the feds?”
“I believe it’s too urgent for that.”
Radcliff chuckled. “So the nation’s fortunes are hanging by a thread?”
“Could be.”
The Midtown Murderer Page 16
