The Closer

by Donn Cortez

  He’d killed her.

  Jack studied her face. She was gagged throughout, but her eyes were painfully expressive. She didn’t look like a prostitute to him; more like a college student.

  He’d killed her.

  Red Ed had been trying to impress him. If he’d phrased things differently, been more specific in his instructions, maybe the woman would still be alive. But she wasn’t.

  Jack was responsible.

  He’d killed her.

  The next message Jack got wasn’t from Red Ed, or the Patron. It was from Nikki.

  Dear Jack:

  I hope this gets to you. I don’t know if you even check this account anymore, but we said we’d use it if we ever got separated and needed to find each other.

  Something weird just happened to me, and I think it might be connected to you. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I figure I should let you know.

  He read about Richard, and his interest in which cities Nikki had been in and when. The description she gave wasn’t anyone Jack recognized.

  Anyway, I’m taking some time off. I have a little money saved up—I hope you’re doing all right for cash. If you need some, please let me know.

  I’m still pissed at you, Jack, but not because of the job. I’m still 100% behind you on that. I just think that sometimes you get so focused, you can’t see the whole picture. You have these blind spots, and it makes me crazy that you won’t listen to me when I try to point them out. I’m not trying to get in your way, I’m just trying to help. You taught me that the best way to go into a dangerous situation is to be as prepared as you can, to do lots of research beforehand. How can you make good decisions when you don’t have all the information?

  I don’t want you to self-destruct. The letter I left you was kind of harsh, but it was honest. And just in case kicking your ass doesn’t work, I thought I’d try something else.

  I know you remember Luis, our first job. But do you remember Stacy Lombardo?

  Well, I got in touch with her mother. Here’s a message from her to you.

  Dear J.:

  Your friend would only give me one letter when I asked for your name, which only makes sense. I want to tell you, though, that I will never, ever, tell anyone (especially the police) even that detail. Your friend showed tremendous courage in taking the risk of contacting me, even on the internet. By the details she shared, I know she and you are genuine and not hoaxes.

  I just wanted to say: THANK YOU. Knowing how and why my daughter died, as horrible as it was, means more than I can say. You asked all the questions that I never got to, and you made sure you got honest answers. I am not a vengeful person, but I believe Luis Chavez got what he deserved.

  Your friend says that lately you seem to be having problems. I am truly sorry to hear that. I’m sure the price you pay for what you do is high. I can’t say that I understand what you are going through, because what you do is something few people could. Your friend says that you do not enjoy inflicting pain and only do so because you have to. I believe that, because only someone of honor would put themselves in the position you have. You risk your life, your freedom and maybe even your soul, and nobody even knows who you are.

  I just wanted you to know you make a difference. My daughter and my family are at peace, now. You gave us that, and we are eternally grateful. You are a good man. Please, be careful and take care of yourself. What you do is important.

  God Bless You,

  Emily Lombardo

  Jack looked up, his eyes stinging. “You’re welcome,” he said softly.

  DJINN-X: Congratulations—you’re in. The video in particular was very convincing.

  RED ED: Thanks. I know you said to send pictures but I thought the video would be better. She was a hore I picked up in the city.

  In case you can’t tell, the hand isnt from her its from the one I told you about.

  DJINN-X: I noticed that. Can I ask why?

  RED ED: The body kind of fell apart when I dug it up and I didnt think it looked very real. Plus this way I have prooved two kills not one.

  DJINN-X: I hate to break it to you, but you haven’t proved as much as you think. The hand could have come from any grave. The video was convincing, but how do I know when it was done? Maybe you killed someone ten years ago and haven’t done anything since.

  I hope I’m not coming across too harshly. You have to understand how careful we have to be, for your protection as well as ours. If I truly didn’t think you are what you claim, I wouldn’t be talking to you.

  RED ED: Thats okay. I should have thought of that and used a newspaper with the date or somthing. I could do another one.

  DJINN-X: All right, but this time let me have some input. Let’s do this right, so I can introduce you properly to the rest of the Pack.

  RED ED: Okay.

  Three days later, Jack found himself in a motel room in Idaho.

  Red Ed operated out of Coeur d’Alene, but he liked to make his kills in more remote areas; there were plenty just outside the city, where mountains and dense forest dominated.

  Jack had decided to go with a modified version of Djinn-X’s initiation. He told Red Ed that he’d lifted the prints of a local hooker, and that he expected her hand to be delivered the same way the last had been.

  From his motel room, Jack dialed numbers at random with a tape recorder in his hand. When he got an appropriate answering machine (Hi! This is Naomi— call me back, I’d love to hear from you!) he recorded it. He set up a cell phone account in Coeur d’Alene under the name Main Street Escorts, and sent the number to Red Ed along with a made-up description of Naomi.

  Then he sat back and waited.

  “Hello, Main Street Escorts.”

  “Hi. Uh, I’m interested in one of your girls.”

  “Sure. What are you looking for?”

  “Uh, I had this one girl recommended to me? By a friend?”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Naomi.”

  “Okay, yeah, Naomi’s working tonight. Are you in a hotel or a private home?”

  “A hotel. The Broadmoor Arms.”

  “Room number?”

  “417. Uh, when do you think she’ll get here?”

  “Probably about half an hour, unless she’s with a client. I can give you her cell number if you want, or I can call her myself.”

  “You can give me the number.”

  “Okay. If she doesn’t answer, just leave a message with the hotel name and room number. She won’t be longer than an hour.”

  Jack gave him the number and then hung up.

  Red Ed sounded younger than he’d expected.

  It went smoothly, so smoothly he should have known something was wrong from the start.

  The Broadmoor Arms was an old hotel, a four-story brownstone built in the twenties. It had lost any tourist appeal it had long ago, and now functioned chiefly as a way station for people on a downward spiral toward no home at all. The desk clerk was a young black man with a face so pitted with acne he looked like he’d lost an argument with a hornet’s nest. He asked if Jack wanted the room by the hour, the day, or the week, and put him on the fourth floor as he requested.

  There was no porter, so Jack had to haul his luggage upstairs by himself. He only had one suitcase, but it was almost the size of a small trunk. Jack made sure that when he carried it, he didn’t give away how light it was. Jack was in 402. He put his case in his room, examined the door. It had a cheap chain lock and no peephole. He nodded, left his door open, and walked down the hall to 417. He drew his gun. With his other hand, he tapped on the door with his fingernails, just hard enough to be heard.

  “Hello?” The voice on the other side sounded hesitant.

  “Police. Open up,” Jack snapped.

  The door was open no more than a quarter-inch when Jack slammed into it with his shoulder. The chain broke and the person inside was knocked backward; Jack stepped in and closed the door behind him.

  The boy sprawled on the floor looked no
more than seventeen. His body was chunky, his face square. He had glasses with thick black frames and long, greasy-looking dark hair. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a black T-shirt with a Metallica logo on the front. He looked terrified.

  “Don’t, don’t shoot,” he gasped. “I give up, okay? I surrender.”

  “Lie on your stomach with your hands behind you,” Jack said. He pulled a pair of handcuffs out.

  “Hello, Red Ed.”

  “Wha-whass happenin’?” The voice was thick and slurred.

  “You’re my prisoner. I gave you a drug to make you easier to transport.”

  “I can’t. Move.”

  “That’s because you’re restrained,” Jack said patiently. “Listen carefully. What do you hear?”

  “Hissing. I hear hissing.”

  “That’s the Coleman lantern. Anything else?”

  “…no.”

  “That’s right. No cars, no people. That’s because we’re in a U-Haul trailer in the middle of nowhere. A trailer I outfitted just for you.”

  “Who… who are you?”

  “I’m the Closer, Ed. Or maybe I should call you Mark? Mark Reilly Anderson, of 109 West Florence Street, Coeur d’Alene, according to your driver’s license.”

  “I’m a fake,” Mark whispered. “I’m a fake, oh God, I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “I don’t believe you, Mark. I think you’re young and stupid and inexperienced, but I don’t think you’re innocent. That videotape was very convincing.”

  “The Closer. The Closer. Oh fuck, oh fuck.” Mark started crying. “Please, please, that wasn’t me, I stole the hand from a funeral home, I didn’t make that tape—”

  “Then who did?”

  “Furious George. I met him online, we both hang out at the same site, massmurder.org—”

  “Right. You didn’t kill anyone. A complete stranger did, someone you’ve never met. And they decided to send a tape to you.”

  “It’s true, it’s true, I wouldn’t have even known about The Pack if George hadn’t told me—”

  “That’s a clumsy lie, Mark. See, everything The Pack knows, I know. And I’ve never heard of Furious George. But I have heard of Red Ed… and I think Red Ed’s heard of me. Haven’t you?”

  “I know who you are,” Mark sobbed. “I know what you do. Everybody on the site does.”

  “Good. Then you know we have a very long night ahead of us….”

  After the first hour, Jack realized how much he needed Nikki.

  “This is how it works,” Jack said. “You may think I’ve done horrible things to you, but I’ve barely even started. We’re at the point now where you’re going to be tempted to lie to me, to tell me what you think I want to hear, just to get me to stop. That’s a very bad idea. It wastes my time and makes my job harder. So. Do you see this?”

  “Oh God. Oh fucking Jesus—”

  “If you lie to me, I’m going to use this on your genitals. So no matter how bad you want to tell me something that isn’t true, remember—I’m going to find out, sooner or later. And this—”

  “Aaah!”

  “—will be waiting.”

  The problem was, without Nikki he couldn’t do verification. Fear, no matter how intense, would only work to a point—pain would eventually trump Mark’s responses, make him say anything for even a temporary respite.

  It didn’t matter, though. That would only be a problem if Mark were innocent….

  “NNNNNNGGH! ALL RIGHT! I DID IT, I FUCKING DID IT!”

  “Who was it?”

  “A girl, I don’t know her name, she wasn’t a hitch-hiker like I said, she, she, was just this girl I met in a bar—”

  “Where?”

  “Am—Amsterdam. I went there with some friends last year and we did lots of drugs and there, there was this girl, we went into this alley to do some crank and I—I wanted to kiss her but she just laughed at me so I stabbed her. I lifted her right up off the ground and her shoes fell off when she went limp—”

  “Mark. I’m not stupid. You think I don’t watch movies? What is that from, Friday the Thirteenth?”

  “Halloween II,” Mark whispered.

  “Right. And Amsterdam is kind of hard to check, right? Except I don’t think you’ve ever been off the continent, Mark. I doubt if you’ve ever been outside the good ol’ U.S. of A.”

  “Please. Please don’t use that thing on me—”

  “This isn’t a movie, Mark. It’s not a videogame or a Stephen King paperback or a TV show. This is real.”

  “GAAAAHH!”

  “You fuck. You miserable fuck. I don’t have time for this. Stop lying to me!”

  “I won’t. I won’t,” Mark whimpered.

  “Ah, shit.” Jack dropped the pliers on the table with a clatter. He leaned against the cool metal of the wall, feeling sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades. “Do you even know what real life is?” he demanded. “It’s not body counts and hacksaws and bleach. It’s not about immersing yourself in blood and horror, about being proud because you came up with a new way to make someone scream. That’s death, it’s just death.”

  “It’s still better than my life….” Mark whispered.

  Jack shook his head. “No. I don’t accept that.” He picked up the pliers again, then threw them convulsively against the wall. He slammed open the back door of the U-Haul and stalked out.

  He was parked in a little clearing just off an old logging road. A crescent moon gave off enough light to show the bulk of mountains rising all around, but the forest itself was a dark, rustling mystery.

  He went for a walk.

  He didn’t have a flashlight, so he stuck to the road. It was possible, though highly unlikely, that a vehicle might discover Mark in the U-Haul, but right now he didn’t care. He was so tired of being in control …he wanted to just let go. He wanted to chop Mark into a hundred pieces while both of them screamed.

  “Why don’t you?” a voice whispered in his ear. It was so sudden and so real that he stopped dead, his heart hammering.

  “You know you can. No one can stop you. And it would feel so good, wouldn’t it?” The voice sounded weirdly distorted—just like the audio file Jack had downloaded.

  It was the voice of the Patron.

  “No, no, no,” Jack said. “No fucking voices in my head. I’m still in control, I am.”

  “Remember your methodology, Jack. Aura phase. The first symptom a serial killer develops when his subconscious is amping up for a kill. Characterized by heightened sensory input and vivid hallucinations…”

  The smell of the woods seemed suddenly overpowering, moss and wet pine and decaying logs. Hypnagogic patterns danced in the darkness around him, his brain painting random psychedelia on the night. Jack closed his eyes, but that only made it worse; the patterns were inside his eyelids, crimson swirls and slashes and grids that bulged and shrank with the rhythm of his own pulse.

  “You’re not real,” Jack gasped.

  “Sure I am, Jack. I’m as real as Son of Sam’s dog.” The voice laughed, a horrible electronic barking. “And I’m here for the same reason—not just to tell you it’s okay to kill, but why.”

  “What?”

  “At what point would you say a group becomes a subculture?” the voice asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

  “I think you do… there are things all subcultures share, Jack. First and most obviously, a common bond. Model railroaders, Star Trek fans, gun collectors, whatever… but that’s not enough. Lots of people like to eat French fries, but that doesn’t mean they have a newsletter, does it? Open your eyes.”

  Jack did. A figure stood on the road in front of him, barely visible in the dark.

  “Which brings me to the second factor, communication,” the voice said. The figure took a step toward him. Jack still couldn’t make out its face. “Members of a subculture always organize around shared information. This leads to their own language—a specialized lexicon will always evolve within a subcul
ture that deals specifically with their area of interest.”

  The figure took another step, and now Jack recognized him: Djinn-X. Dressed in the same bloodstained clothes Jack had executed him in.

  “Yeah,” Djinn-X said. “Pick out a sheep, do her, use a Bundymobile as a BDU. Keep the nipples for a little trophy buzz later.”

  “Fuck off,” Jack said. His voice was hardly more than a croak.

  “Uh-huh,” the Patron’s voice continued. The figure faded back into an indistinct blur. “Next is congregation. The members of the subculture gather to celebrate their subculture in specific, ritualized ways. These gatherings are often geared toward increasing the size of the group, as well as letting members hook up with each other in various ways.”

  The figure stepped forward again. This time it was Road Rage. “A membership drive? Excellent idea. I’m more than willing to help organize. Perhaps we could combine it with some sort of fund-raising effort….”

  “That’s—that’s not a good idea—”

  Road Rage stepped back into the darkness. “Organization, communication, congregation,” the Patron said. “The subculture has evolved a brain, a tongue, and a means of reproduction. But it’s not complete until it has a soul—something that not only manifests its values but transcends them.”

  The figure stepped forward again—but this time, it wasn’t someone Jack had killed.

  It was Jack himself.

  “It’s not a culture,” he said, “until it has its own art….”

  Two hours later, Jack returned.

  He closed the door of the U-Haul behind him, and sat down opposite Mark. The boy’s face was covered in mosquito bites, and four or five were still feeding.

  Jack stared at the boy for a long time before speaking.

  “You know what you are?” Jack said at last. “You’re a product of your culture. To you, violence and entertainment are the same thing. Right?”

  “Yeah, right. You’re right.” He sounded desperately eager to agree.