The Closer

by Donn Cortez

  ROAD RAGE: No. You’re invisible. That’s completely different—it gives you power. It lets you move among them unseen.

  DJINN-X: I guess.

  ROAD RAGE: Don’t you know how strong that makes you? How exceptional? You, me, all the members of The Pack—we’re a breed apart. It’s true that others—coworkers, women, our families— don’t truly see us, but it’s because we’re above them, not below. We do what they can only dream about.

  DJINN-X: But we can’t fucking tell them. Man, some days all I want to do is scream into the next bland face I see,“I could kill you without a second thought, motherfucker!” How do you deal?

  ROAD RAGE: I find certain rituals help. I take a small object from my victim, something innocuous but personal, say, a key chain—and keep it in my pocket. When things get stressful, I just put my hand in my pocket. It reconnects me to the act; it reminds me of who I really am, not the person others think me to be.

  DJINN-X: Yeah, but a trophy-buzz just gets me all pumped up, man. I’m more likely to just do the fucker than calm down.

  ROAD RAGE: You have to learn to focus. Channel your anger. Kill them in your mind, where there are no consequences.

  DJINN-X: And that works for you?

  ROAD RAGE: Let me tell you a story. The last time I struck, I was late for work. I had gone straight from the kill to the office; I’m sure there were still traces of gunpowder on my hands.

  My supervisor reprimanded me. Despite the fact that he’s a career civil servant with no interest in his job beyond one day collecting his pension, he still thought he could criticize me. I was still “pumped up” from the kill; I felt like pulling the gun out of my pocket and shooting him on the spot.

  But I didn’t. Instead, I made him beg for mercy.

  I paraded him around the office and then out to the front counter to tell everyone what a pathetic excuse for a man he was. And then I blew his brains out.

  But only in my imagination.

  DJINN-X: Well, I guess if you can show that kind of selfcontrol right after a kill, I can, too. Thanks for the insight.

  ROAD RAGE: Any time. Remember—The Pack Hunts Together.

  Jack surfed the web, hit news sites and searched archives. He read everything he could find on Road Rage’s crimes.

  Police seemed to think he was an opportunistic killer—that he cruised around until a driver did something to anger him, then followed that person to their home. He didn’t kill them right away, though, waiting one or more days until the time was right. The media had identified the stretch of freeway most of his victims had frequented, but thousands of cars used it every day.

  Jack knew the authorities must have decoy cars on the road, trying to lure the murderer into a trap—but he also thought he knew why the strategy wouldn’t work.

  Road Rage’s online remarks indicated he was a civil servant. He could be using a government database to look up his victims’ license plates, might even work for the DMV itself. He didn’t have to follow his victims home; he could drop in on them any time he liked. Jack knew the police must have already considered the same theory—so Road Rage was obviously smart enough to use the system without being detected, or he’d already have been caught.

  But Jack had information the police didn’t.

  Road Rage had referred to a “front counter.” That suggested an agency that dealt with large numbers of people every day: Immigration, Social Security, the DMV. He could even work for the police in some capacity, though Jack doubted he was a cop.

  Jack called up a map of the Portland area. There were government offices everywhere, of course—but if he encountered his victims on the freeway, he probably lived at one end of his trail and worked at the other. Road Rage was meticulous, methodical; Jack thought he probably drove the same route every day.

  His first car had been a ’65 Malibu. First cars were usually hand-me-downs from parents or cheap pieces of junk; the Malibu would seem to fit the former. Assuming his parents gave him a ten-year-old car when he was sixteen, that would put Road Rage in his midforties.

  A middle-aged civil servant, driving to and from work every day during rush hour in his white, late-model Taurus. Jack sighed and rubbed his temples.

  It wasn’t enough; he needed more.

  “The Pack hunts together,” he muttered. He didn’t know why. “The Pack, The Pack…”

  He closed his eyes. Saw them, suddenly, as an actual pack of wolves. Road Rage was a sleek, white wolf with blazing red eyes; the Gourmet was a hulking gray beast with enormous, slavering jaws; the Patron was simply a black silhouette. Even Djinn-X was there, a four-legged ghost whose skeleton shone right through its skin.

  And lurking at the edge of The Pack was Deathkiss. The new one. Tested, but not yet trusted.

  Slowly, Jack smiled.

  DJINN-X: We got trouble.

  GOURMET: How so?

  DJINN-X: You may have noticed Deathkiss hasn’t logged on in a few days. That’s because I’ve restricted his access while I checked a few things out—namely, that he may be a fake.

  ROAD RAGE: I thought our verification system made that impossible.

  DJINN-X: It does. Deathkiss was the real deal—or at least he was until the Closer got to him.

  PATRON: Stanley Dupreiss.

  Jack stopped, stared at the screen. The Patron hadn’t logged on since the exchange where Jack had posed as Dupreiss—at least not while Jack was online.

  DJINN-X: Yeah. I didn’t put it together until started comparing Deathkiss’s kills with Dupreiss’s victims. The media is saying the Closer did Dupreiss, even though Deathkiss has been active since Dupreiss’s death. That means only one thing.

  GOURMET: The Closer is posing as Deathkiss.

  ROAD RAGE: He must have gotten the information from Dupreiss before he killed him.

  DJINN-X: But he doesn’t know that we know. This is the perfect opportunity to get rid of the son of a bitch.

  PATRON: Indeed. Do you have a plan?

  DJINN-X: Yeah. We whack the motherfucker.

  ROAD RAGE: Easier said than done.

  GOURMET: Anonymity is our cornerstone. He knows that.

  Suggesting a physical meeting will look suspicious.

  PATRON: Not if the bait is irresistible.

  DJINN-X: And that would be?

  PATRON: All of us. All together in one location.

  ROAD RAGE: Giving him the opportunity to eliminate the entire Pack in one blow. I doubt he could resist—but what if he does something crude? Using a bomb, for instance?

  PATRON: He won’t. I’d like you all to look at something.

  A picture downloaded. It was one of the photos of Djinn-X Jack had taken during his interrogation.

  He knew. The Patron knew that Djinn-X was dead. In a second he was going to reveal it to the entire Pack….

  Jack grabbed blindly for the power cord. He could still shut down the whole system, blame it on a power surge—

  Too late.

  PATRON: Deathkiss sent me this. I believe it is actually Deathkiss himself—and that the wounds you see are the Closer’s work.

  Jack froze.

  PATRON: We had a most interesting conversation. I believe the Closer does more than simply kill our kind—he tortures them. Not simply for pleasure, but for information.

  Jack swallowed, then forced himself to type a reply.

  DJINN-X: Then he’d never just try to wipe us out all at once. He’ll do the same thing we do— try to get us somewhere he can control the situation.

  PATRON: Then we must offer him such a place.

  GOURMET: Yes. And make sure he doesn’t leave it alive.

  DJINN-X: We can’t risk the entire Pack. We should only send one of us to take him out, just in case.

  ROAD RAGE: Well, it can’t be Djinn-X—as webmaster, you know too much that could be potentially damaging.

  GOURMET: Agreed. Let me do it—I’d love to sample his gray cells.

  PATRON: I have no problem with that.

&n
bsp; Jack frowned. He’d scanned the Gourmet’s section, but he was still largely an unknown.

  DJINN-X: Hang on. Maybe we should figure out how we’re gonna trap him before we decide who should make the kill.

  ROAD RAGE: I have an idea. A competition.

  GOURMET: Explain.

  ROAD RAGE: All members of The Pack attend a large public event. Nobody can identify anybody else. We establish rules and objectives concerning prey, methods of killing and body disposal. Most importantly, we provide a space the Closer thinks he can control, one where he believes he can lie in wait and take us out one by one.

  PATRON: A hunt. Where the prey is hunting the hunters, who are in turn hunting him. Elegant.

  DJINN-X: I like it. And I’ve got just the thing for a killing floor—a big white panel truck. I don’t know about driving it all the way out to Nevada, though.

  ROAD RAGE: Not a problem. I can obtain access to one easily enough here—and I don’t think our newest member will object to driving from Seattle to Portland, do you?

  GOURMET: Unlikely. Congratulations, Road Rage—you would seem to be the logical choice.

  ROAD RAGE: Thank you. I’ll do my best.

  They chose the Rose Quarter Memorial Coliseum as the hunting ground.

  The Gourmet devised most of the rules. Jack wasn’t sure if he was the smartest member of the Pack, but he certainly portrayed himself as such—despite the fact that the hunt was simply a ruse, the guidelines were well thought out.

  They titled the competition, “Anyone you can kill… I can kill better.”

  It was to take place next weekend, during a Home and Garden show. The place would be swarming with thousands of people, but security would be restricted to rent-a-cops; no actual police presence was expected.

  Jack went out there the next afternoon to look around. He wandered down halls, poked his head in empty meeting rooms, rode escalators up and down.

  He paid special attention to back areas. Jack had worked part-time in a hotel while he attended art school, and he knew as long as he looked like he belonged no one would question him. He took along a sealed cardboard box as a prop, and tried to look bored.

  He scoped out the kitchens, the staff rooms and the storage areas. He noted the location of freight elevators, stairwells and administrative offices. No one bothered him.

  He saved the loading dock and parking area for last. They were usually monitored, both by cameras and security guards. He didn’t linger.

  When he was done, he went shopping.

  The hunt was planned for Sunday; Stoltz rented a white panel truck Saturday morning, then spent the early afternoon at the Home and Garden show. It would have made an interesting place for an actual hunt, he thought as he wandered between the displays. He eyed a large, bearded man in a denim jacket inspecting a kitchen suite, and entertained a brief fantasy about the man stealing his parking spot. It ended with him following the man into the bathroom and shooting him on the toilet—a crudely fitting end for such a crude human being, he thought with satisfaction.

  The Home and Garden show itself even provided him with the supplies he required. He purchased six large garbage bins—the plastic kind with a wheeled base—some rope and a heavy tarp. The bins were ostensibly for the victims of the contest, but only two would actually be used; one to hold the Closer’s body, and one to conceal his killer. The other four he dropped off at prearranged spots around the arena, in areas they wouldn’t seem out of place, then parked the truck in a lot across the street so he wouldn’t have far to move it in the morning.

  Of course, there was always fine-tuning to be done. First, he strung the tarp inside, dividing the truck into a back section and a front, then secured the bins behind the tarp. Anyone entering the truck from the rear would see only the tarp; enticing them to step behind it would be easier than slamming the heavy rear door down.

  He encountered a problem with the dimensions of the bin itself, so he walked back to the Home and Garden show and bought a few more things: a cordless tool with a serrated blade, four small plastic clamps and a hose.

  Fortunately the bins were squared-off, not round, and butted up against one another nicely. He cut away most of the sidewalls of two of them, leaving only a thin lip running down each side. He used the plastic clamps to attach the lips together; from outside the bins would look like they were just standing side by side, but in fact they were now one, roomier unit. Stoltz could sit quite comfortably with his legs stretched out; it would be serviceable.

  There. He was almost ready. He would stop at a grocery store and pick up some produce, and make himself another silencer tonight. In the morning he would add the rental truck to the many other white rental trucks in the Coliseum parking lot, and add a few final touches.

  And then he would wait.

  ANYONE YOU CAN KILL…

  The rules are simple.

  The Hunt begins at noon on Sunday. Method of termination must be personal—no poison, bombs or arson. Anyone is fair game, but different prey have different point values.

  Body Disposal Units—plastic wheeled bins—have been placed in various areas. Click on the link below for a complete floor plan. These units are for your convenience; their use is not mandatory. However, in order to fairly judge the competition, all bodies must be transported to the central dump area to be counted. It doesn’t matter if the prey is alive when it gets there—as long as it doesn’t leave that way.

  Using the dump area—a white panel truck—as a kill site is perfectly acceptable. You must call 555- 6661 from a local phone after 11:45 A.M. to find out the license plate number and which parking lot the truck is in. Its rear access door will be locked from the outside; the combination is 12-17-64. The front doors will be open to provide alternative access, but the engine will be disabled to prevent theft. It’s unlikely anyone will steal the contents of the BDUs, but providing additional proof of a kill through visual documentation is encouraged.

  Points are as follows:

  White Adult Male—75

  White Adult Female—100

  Adolescent Male—50

  Adolescent Female—75

  Minority Female (any age)—150

  Minority Male (any age)—125

  Prepubescent Male—100

  Prepubescent Female—150

  Security Guard—50

  This point system is based on the assumption that the harder it is to isolate the prey, the more they’re worth. Members of another race and sex are ranked highest, as are children. Security guards and male teenagers are worth the least, as both tend to be overconfident and curious.

  The Hunt ends at six P.M., when the Home and Garden show closes. A final body count will be tallied and posted by our onsite representative.

  Good luck, and good hunting.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Jack knew it even before he and Nikki pulled into the parking lot of the Coliseum in their van at 11:30 A.M. He had helped plan the entire setup, had even been the one to suggest the last-minute phone ID of the truck. Road Rage would be recording a message in another few minutes, but he wouldn’t have to leave the truck to do it—he’d probably use his cell. Which meant there was no way Jack could find out which one of the dozens of white rental trucks was his, not right now—he’d have to wait and check the message, just like Deathkiss was supposed to do.

  But something wasn’t right.

  “Where you think it’ll be?” Nikki said. “Close to a loading dock to make it seem believable?” She wore dark sunglasses, a gray skater’s toque and a black track suit; she looked nothing like she did on the street.

  “I don’t think so. More likely someplace low-traffic to cut down on potential witnesses.”

  “Which will work for us, too. Road Rage’s the only Pack member even in town, and he should be sealed up in a big garbage bin right about now.”

  “Yeah. But—” Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. My gut’s trying to tell me something.”

  “If we’re gon
na change the plan, we gotta do it now,” Nikki said. “They’re gonna expect the Closer to show up about two minutes after he finds out where the truck is so he doesn’t miss anyone. If you don’t, double-R is gonna know something’s wrong.”

  “The plan is fine. It’s something else.”

  “It’s different from the others, Jack. This guy knows you’re coming. And he’s not going to dick around with trying to take you alive, either—he’ll just put a bullet in you.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Jack said softly. “Maybe I should be….”

  “We can still call it off. Always trust your gut, you know that.”

  “There’s too much at stake. If I take him out, they’ll think the Closer is gone for good. If they let down their guard—just a little—it’ll give me the opening I need.”

  “Yeah, and then you’ll have another identity to juggle,” Nikki pointed out. “Deathkiss’ll be gone, but you’ll have to pose as Road Rage and Djinn-X from now on. Which means a lot more chances for you to screw up, too.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Yeah, well… I’ll be there to watch your back, okay?”

  Jack nodded, but his eyes were distant.

  “Kinda weird, huh?” Nikki asked. “You being the target, me being the muscle. I get a catchy nickname, too?”

  “Sure. How about …Captain Hooker?”

  She stared at him in surprise, then laughed. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with Jack?”

  “Sorry. I—just nerves, I guess. Trying to loosen up.”

  “No, no, it was funny. Just not what I expect from you.”

  “Maybe that’s my problem,” Jack said. “I keep trying to expect the unexpected.”

  “You’re used to being in control. The capture, the interrogation—you hold all the cards. You can’t think like that now. On the street, it’s all about reflexes and instincts. React to what’s happening, not what you think should or could be. Listen to your gut.”