The Closer

by Donn Cortez

  She ran in the evenings now, her biological clock swinging back to her natural rhythm as a night person. She wasn’t sure what the dawn runs had been all about—something to do with fresh starts and isolation, she supposed. It had been what she needed to do, she’d done it, and now it was over. Running at dusk— the parks and paths filled with strolling couples, dog- walkers, other joggers—was what seemed natural now.

  It was almost full dark by the time she got in, out of breath and sweaty. She unlocked the door to her suite, went straight to the fridge and got herself a beer.

  The first thing she noticed was that the papers on her kitchen table had been moved.

  It was a small thing, but Jack had trained Nikki to notice small things. Someone had been in her place.

  She froze, put down her beer, and listened.

  Nothing.

  She always ran with the .38 in a fanny pack. She took it out now, took the safety off, and moved quickly and quietly from room to room. She searched the closets, the bathroom, beneath the bed. She was alone.

  There were other traces that someone had been there—things ever so slightly askew or misplaced. When she returned to the living room, she checked the door and found scratches around the lock.

  She frowned, picked up her beer and took a long swallow. Nothing had been taken—even the scratches might be old. Was she just being paranoid?

  She searched the place again, looking for a reason. When she was done, she was even less sure than before; maybe she was jumping at ghosts. She sighed, sat down, and finished her beer.

  Definitely time to move on, she thought. This place is making me squirrelly.

  She thought about having another beer, but when she got up to get one, she felt suddenly dizzy. She sat back down.

  Whoa. Maybe I need to have something to eat, instead….

  Too late, she realized her mistake. She grabbed for the phone, but her arms seemed a million miles long.

  Everything went away.

  CLOSER: Go ahead and boast. You have no idea what you’re really dealing with.

  You don’t impress me, Patron. You’re like all the rest of them, a pathetic loser who tells himself he’s special because he does ugly things and no one can find him. That’s a good description of allvermin, don’t you think? I imagine rats and cockroaches and maggots think much the same thing as they wallow in filth: all this richness, just for me. I’m special.

  You’re a fake.

  You don’t understand what real torment is. A few eviscerations, a hanging or two, cutting some throats… gory, but over in moments. Do you know what it’s like to torture someone for twelve hours straight? To have them piss and shit themselves in terror and pain? To have grown men beg and plead and cry for their lives as you make them suffer?

  I do. And I’m very, very good at it.

  You boast about creating artists because you have no talent yourself. You brag about murder because you don’t have the balls to do what I do. Anyone can prey on the innocent; they make easy targets. Me, I hunt predators—and I always get what I go after.

  You won’t go after Nikki. I’m telling you this because you already know I’m going to catch you; you practically said so in your last message.

  Well, here’s a very simple promise from me: anything you do to her, I’ll do to you.

  A reply came back almost immediately:

  PATRON: Harsh words, Jack—but heartfelt, I can tell. Still, there’s a certain desperation in them, isn’t there? I hold all the cards here. I mean, you’ve even provided me with the means for a quick and merciful death from you—all I have to do is kill Nikki in the same manner. If, of course, you’re a man of your word.

  Sadly, though, that’s not going to happen. Nikki’s death will be long, agonizing, and worst of all—a complete mystery. You’ll never find out exactly what happened to her, Jack. She’ll simply vanish, another hooker swallowed by the street, and her body will never be found. I’ll never tell… unless you make me.

  There is an alternative, though, one that could save Nikki a great deal of suffering.

  You could kill her yourself.

  It’s the only way to protect her, Jack. You didn’t think I knew she even existed, but I know much, much more. I know where she is right now… and it’s not with you.

  You don’t need her, Jack. You know that. The reason I kill the people close to artists isn’t just about the fire of inspiration—it’s about the fire of cleansing, of purity. A corpse focuses; a live person distracts.

  Do what you have to.

  “He’s trying to make me rabbit,” Jack muttered. “Make me panic, lose my head. Have to stay calm. Have to stay focused.”

  He couldn’t lead the Patron to her. Just because the Patron knew about Nikki didn’t mean he knew where she was. But he knew a lot, that much was obvious. He knew about Jack, he knew about Nikki—

  He had to find her. He just wasn’t sure why.

  “Oh no,” Jack whispered. Suddenly, he understood.

  Mentioning Nikki was just a distraction. The Patron wanted to eliminate any humanizing influences from Jack’s life, true—but there was a much more obvious target.

  “The smell of firecrackers in October,” Jack murmured. “You don’t get that in the U.S., not until July…. Vancouver. He’s in Vancouver.”

  A target the Patron had already revealed he knew about.

  Charlie.

  Nikki opened her eyes. She wasn’t sure where she was, or what had happened, but she knew it wasn’t good. Her head was muzzy, her vision blurred. Drugged. She’d been drugged.

  She was lying on a cot. Wrists and ankles tied to the frame. Overhead, cracked plaster and black Rorschach blots of mildew. She turned her head to one side, and that was enough to make her dizzy and nauseous. She fought it down.

  Small room, bare wooden walls, exposed pipes. Looked abandoned, industrial. Against the far wall, another cot, with another person tied to it. Male, white, forties, dressed in white pants and a blue silk shirt. Bloodstained white bandage wrapped around his left hand. Gucci loafers. He wasn’t moving, but she could hear him breathing. Unconscious?

  Her head was starting to clear. She did a quick mental inventory of herself: she was in her underwear. All limbs accounted for. Earrings were gone, but her charm bracelet wasn’t. No shoes.

  The man on the other cot stirred, moaned.

  “Hey,” Nikki hissed. “You awake?”

  The man tried to move, discovered he couldn’t. His eyes struggled open. “Whuh?” he said.

  “Keep it down,” Nikki said in a low voice. “You all right?”

  The man turned his head toward hers. He had a round, fleshy face with a bulbous nose, and he looked terrified. “What—who—who are you?” he croaked.

  “My name’s Nikki,” she said. “Who the fuck are you?”

  The man’s face, already pasty, had blanched even whiter at her name. “Oh no,” he said. “I’m sorry, he made me tell him, I—he cut off my fingers!” The man started to cry.

  Nikki glanced at the man’s bandaged hand. For a fleeting second, she thought he was talking about Jack…but she knew who it had to be. “Shit,” she cursed softly. “C’mon, man, get it together. What’s your name?”

  “Charlie. Charlie Holloway…”

  Charlie and Nikki were the only two people in the world Jack cared about. He left a hurried email to Nikki, then tried to call Charlie. He got only an answering machine, and hung up.

  He paid for a week’s rent in advance, and caught the next flight back to Vancouver; he took the laptop with him, but left the Stalking Ground equipment behind. He tried Charlie’s number several times, from the airport and the plane, but nobody picked up.

  He wondered if Charlie’s voice on the machine was the last time he’d ever hear it.

  He took a cab from the airport to Charlie’s gallery. The gallery was dark and locked. He banged on the door—no answer.

  He went around to the back. The fire escape in the alley was down; Jack lo
oked around, saw no one watching, and climbed up. He tried a window on the second floor—it looked like it was painted shut.

  He had no time to be subtle. He smashed the glass with his elbow.

  No alarms went off, at least not ones he could hear. He kicked the shards hanging from the frame inside, and climbed in after them. He was in a hallway, with doors on either side and one at the end marked Office. He headed for it.

  The door was open. Inside, a desk cluttered with papers and stacks of magazines. A couple of plush upholstered chairs along one wall. Three filing cabinets along another, and a separate desk with a computer on it.

  There was blood on the keyboard. It was spattered across it in a wide arc, like someone with a nosebleed had done a pirouette.

  He was too late.

  “Listen to me, Charlie,” Nikki said. She kept her voice quiet but forceful. “If we’re gonna get out of this alive, we have to stay sharp. Focused. You with me?”

  “Yes. Yes,” Charlie said. “He’s—he’s insane. He’s the one who killed Jack’s family.”

  “I know,” Nikki said grimly. “He calls himself the Patron. You and me are next on his list, and it’s not gonna be pleasant. How tight are your ropes?”

  “Uh—pretty tight.”

  “Well, see if you can loosen them. Never know if you don’t try. I’m gonna do the same.”

  “All right. How—how did he get you?”

  “Dosed me. I had a beer from my own fridge… that’s the last thing I remember.” Nikki tugged at the ropes, wished she’d been conscious when she was tied up—she could have tensed her muscles, given herself a little slack. “What about you?”

  “It—what happened to me, it sounds crazy. I still don’t believe it. I was working in my office, when suddenly he was just standing there. I didn’t hear him come in or anything, it was like he just materialized. He was wearing this black cloak, and I couldn’t see his face. He pointed his hand at me, and suddenly—I couldn’t move.”

  “That’s a new one,” Nikki muttered.

  “He tied me to my chair, and took out a pair of pruning shears…” Charlie’s voice broke. After a moment, he went on. “And when he talked, his voice was all distorted. Inhuman.”

  “Voicebox modulator,” Nikki said. “He’s afraid you’ll recognize his voice. Might be someone you know—or not. Could be he’s just being really careful.”

  “He asked about you. About Jack. I didn’t know much…but I told him. I told him everything I knew. I’m sorry.” Charlie’s voice was hardly more than a whisper.

  “It’s okay,” Nikki said. “Everybody has a breaking point. Any luck with the ropes?”

  “I—I think I can slide them along the bedframe.”

  “Good. Try and find an edge, a corner, anything you can rub them over.”

  “There’s something sticking out—I think it’s a screw or a bolt.”

  Nikki wasn’t having any luck herself—the Patron had been more thorough with her. “Okay, rub the ropes over the screw,” she said. “It might take a while, but don’t give up. Keep at it.”

  “Okay, yes, I will. Oh, Christ, my hand hurts.”

  “You don’t get us free before the Patron comes back,” Nikki said, “and you might look back on that amount of pain with fond memories….”

  Jack prowled through Charlie’s place, searching. He wasn’t sure for what… but his gut told him he was missing something.

  The building wasn’t just Charlie’s gallery, it was also his home; he used the upstairs rooms as his living space. Jack roamed from room to room, looking for anything that might tell him about where the Patron had taken its owner.

  When he finally stumbled across it, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  One of the rooms was a spare bedroom; Jack had crashed there once after a particularly late after-opening party. When Jack first stuck his head in, he thought Charlie had turned it into storage—paintings were hung on every available inch of wall space. But then he noticed the bed was still in the corner, and a small dresser and wardrobe had been added.

  The painting over the bed was of a man lying in a twisted heap on the ground. Leering, demonic angels and a sharp-fanged God loomed over him.

  “Salvatore Torigno,” Jack whispered.

  It was the same picture the Patron had downloaded to the Stalking Ground, back when Jack was posing as Deathkiss.

  “The rope is fraying,” Charlie said. “Oh God, I think this is going to work.”

  “Keep going,” Nikki urged.

  “It’s coming apart! Almost—there!” Charlie pulled his wrists free with one convulsive yank. He sat up and fumbled at the cords binding his feet.

  “Hurry!”

  A second later, Charlie was standing over her. His eyes looked glazed.

  “Don’t just stand there, untie me!” Nikki hissed.

  Charlie looked down at her. He didn’t say a word.

  Jack looked around the room slowly.

  Every painting spoke of death and despair. Screaming faces and ripped flesh seemed to be the dominant theme. It was a room full of windows into Hell.

  Jack walked over to the wardrobe and opened it. He already knew what he was going to find.

  Shiny black latex, oiled leather, and chrome chains gleamed from the dozen or so outfits that neatly hung there. Apparently, the bedroom was no longer spare.

  “Falmi,” Jack breathed.

  Outside, he could hear the pop and snap of firecrackers. Halloween had begun.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Charlie swayed, shook his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “Still dizzy.” He bent down and started working on Nikki’s restraints. In a minute he had her free.

  She stood and tried to rub circulation back into her wrists. The wooden floor was cold and rough under her bare feet. “Okay, Charlie. Try to find something we can use as a weapon.”

  They searched the room, came up with a length of rusty pipe. Nikki hung on to it—Charlie didn’t look like he’d be much use in a fight. She tried the door, and it swung open without resistance.

  “Come on,” she said.

  “Wait,” Charlie whispered. “He didn’t drug me until after he tied me to the bed—I remember the way out.”

  “Then lead the way….”

  They crept out into one end of a dark, dusty hall. Pigeon droppings crusted the floor, and the dim yellow glow of a streetlight through a dirty window to their left provided the barest illumination. They went the only way available, to their right.

  Jack searched the rest of the room. There was a trunk under the bed; it was locked, but he found a hammer downstairs and smashed it open.

  It was full of photographs. The ones on top were of Jack’s family… and the rest were just as horrifying. The trunk also contained a semiautomatic pistol, five pairs of handcuffs, and a cell phone.

  Jack heard the lock on the front door chunk open.

  He picked up the gun, checked to make sure it was loaded and the safety was off. He could hear someone moving around downstairs; he slipped out of the room and positioned himself next to the stairs.

  A minute later, Falmi’s skeletal frame shambled up the steps. Jack waited until Falmi had one foot in the hallway, then poked the gun into the dead-white side of his neck.

  “Hello, Falmi,” Jack said. “I’ve got a few questions to ask you.”

  It got darker as they moved away from the window, until Charlie was a barely discernible blur in front of her. There didn’t seem to be any other doors in the hall. She stepped on something sharp—broken glass, most likely—and winced but didn’t cry out. Her stomach churned, nauseous with the aftereffects of the drug and adrenaline.

  “There’s a staircase here, going down,” Charlie whispered. “Careful.”

  The stairs creaked and complained under their weight; to Nikki it sounded as loud as gunshots. She thought about booby traps, swallowed, and kept going.

  The stairs went down to a landing, then angled to the left. Once around the corner, there was li
ght once more, halogen glare filtering through some kind of grate high in the wall. It was enough to show that the stairwell ended in a door.

  “Don’t let it be locked, don’t let it be locked,” Charlie murmured, and pulled on the handle.

  “You’re out of your fucking mind,” Falmi said. His voice trembled, ever so slightly.

  Jack had him cuffed to the chair in the office. He studied the Goth intently, not saying a word. Not moving, not blinking. Thinking.

  “I don’t know what this is about, okay?” Falmi said. “Just talk to me, all right?”

  “Where is he?” Jack asked calmly.

  “Who, Charlie? He said he had an interview—”

  “Stop it. You know you can’t lie to me—not for long.”

  “I’m not lying!” Falmi sounded close to tears. “He had an interview with some new artist he’s interested in, some guy named Stedman—”

  “An artist with a young niece, right? An artist that needs a little push… is that where you just came from?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  “Ssssh.” Jack held a finger to his lips. “I understand. After all the buildup, you need to see, firsthand. To experience the end result of your ‘art.’ To find out just what you’ve changed me into…”

  He stared into Falmi’s eyes. “All right,” Jack said softly. “I’ll give you what you want. And you’ll tell me what I want to hear.”

  He didn’t have his equipment with him, but Jack was sure he could make do.

  The door swung open.

  Revealing a solid brick wall, blocking the entrance.

  “What the fuck?” Nikki said. She stepped forward, put her hand flat against it. The bricks were cool, pitted, the mortar holding them in place crumbly with age. They looked like they’d been there for decades.

  “No,” Charlie said. His voice was loud and echoey in the stairwell. “No, that’s impossible. This is the way we came—it’s the only way, goddammit. It’s not fucking possible.”