The Closer

by Donn Cortez

  Nikki pushed on the wall, tried to find some kind of secret door. Nothing.

  “He’s not human. He’s not human. That’s how he paralyzed me, that’s how he did this, he’s some kind of fucking demon—”

  Charlie’s voice was getting high and panicky. Nikki whirled and said “Shut up!” but the snarl she tried to put into her voice sounded shaky, scared.

  And then she saw the look on Charlie’s face.

  He was grinning.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Nikki,” Charlie said, chuckling. “I just couldn’t resist. I suppose I’m something of a trickster at heart—and after all, it is Halloween.” In the dim light, a pistol glinted in his right hand.

  “I’ve never done this to someone I know,” Jack said.

  He’d wheeled the office chair into the kitchen. He turned the front element of the stove on to high. “But then, I don’t really know you at all, do I?”

  “Jack, I know we’ve never been close, but Jesus Christ—”

  Jack opened the silverware drawer, rummaged inside. He selected a large, serrated knife, and a pair of metal tongs.

  “Pretend I don’t know what’s going on,” Falmi said. “Please, Jack.”

  “You should concentrate less on ignorance and more on bargaining,” Jack said. He wedged the blade of the knife between the coils of the element. “Because this session is going to have to be more… condensed than usual. This location isn’t secure or soundproof, so I’m going to have to improvise.”

  “Bargaining? What the fuck do you want?”

  “The truth.”

  “Look, the truth is that I’m scared shitless, okay? Can’t you see that?”

  Jack looked at Falmi expressionlessly. “I saw the paintings in your room. Quite the collection.”

  “Those? Those are Charlie’s, he just stores them there, he knows I like that kind of stuff—”

  “And the trunk under your bed?”

  “What? I don’t have a trunk under my bed, just some old art supplies—”

  Jack placed a pen and a pad of paper on the edge of the kitchen table, within reach of Falmi’s cuffed hand. “One hand. One eye. One ear,” Jack said. “That’s all I require you to have. Everything else I can subtract…”

  He grabbed Falmi’s lower lip, yanked downward to make him open his mouth. He reached inside with the tongs, clamped onto the tip of his tongue. Stretched it out between his teeth while Falmi’s eyes bulged in terror. “You killed my family,” Jack hissed.

  The serrated knife on the stove was glowing red-hot down its length, white where the blade pressed against the element. Jack pulled it free with his other hand.

  “I don’t want you choking on your own blood,” Jack said. “The heat should cauterize the stump…”

  Falmi scrabbled for the pen, began to write frantically.

  Jack looked down, read what Falmi had scrawled. Warehouse.

  Jack released Falmi’s tongue. “Paintings,” Falmi gasped. “Charlie’s got lots more. Paintings, art, sculpture. Took me there once. Called it his legacy. Maybe that’s where he is now, I don’t know—”

  “How do I know it’s not your warehouse?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “You’re his assistant. You’re in the perfect position to frame him. Plant evidence, register things in his name.”

  “But I haven’t!”

  Jack stared at him. “No, you haven’t…you kept the paintings and the trunk in your own room.”

  “I don’t own a fucking trunk!”

  “Perception,” Jack murmured. “Art isn’t an object. It’s a sense…”

  A sense to be manipulated.

  “You know that moment when you’re studying a piece, and suddenly you get it?” he asked Falmi. “I think I just did.”

  He turned off the stove, put the knife in the sink and ran some water. Steam hissed into the air.

  “Tell me what you know about this new artist,” Jack said.

  “I may be gone for a while,” Charlie said. He’d returned Nikki to her room; this time he’d used handcuffs to secure her to the bed and gagged her before wheeling in an oxygen tank on a dolly. “I have some trick-or-treating to do, as well as a costume to pick up. But don’t worry—I’ll be back before this runs out.” The hose from the tank was attached to a military-style gas mask; Charlie slipped it over Nikki’s head, then securely strapped it in place. He fiddled with a small device attached to the tank and adjusted the flow.

  All Nikki could do was glare.

  “Oh, come on,” Charlie said with a chuckle. He took out a prefilled syringe and uncapped the needle. “Don’t you want to be immortalized? That’s what art is really all about, you know—ego. Artists are all desperate to be remembered. Of course, you’re not an artist, are you?” He stuck the needle in her neck and pressed the plunger. “You’re just a whore…”

  He turned out the lights when he left, leaving her alone in the dark. Sinking into a deeper blackness.

  INTERLUDE

  “The Parade of Lost Souls,” Fiona breathed.

  She’d read about it for years, even did a report on the Mexican Day of the Dead festival it was based on, but she’d never been allowed to go before. Now, it swirled past her in all its dark, heady glory. Stilt-walkers dressed as gigantic skeletons strode past, holding aloft blazing torches; devils capered and danced to the insistent pulse of hand-beaten drums; lanterns of colored paper shaped like stars, ships, birds, beasts, and a hundred other forms were lofted high on poles; neon glow-ropes outlined elaborate costumes or spun past threaded through the spokes of bikes. The air smelled of burning kerosene and damp vegetation.

  It was all wonderful, but… where was Uncle Rick?

  He was supposed to pick her up at her house and drive her to his studio, where they were going to get ready. But when she’d gotten home from school there’d been a message that he’d had a sudden emergency and was going to be late. They’d arranged to meet at a corner down on the Drive, instead. She didn’t mind taking the bus—her costume was easier to travel in than Uncle Rick’s—but she was a little nervous about being alone, especially without her cell phone. She was still annoyed someone had stolen it two days ago.

  And then a car pulled up, and somebody leaned over and waved at her. It looked like Uncle Rick, al ready in costume—she caught a flash of copper. She reached for the door.

  Abruptly, someone pushed past her. A man, wearing a black leather trenchcoat, someone she didn’t recognize. He opened the door, got in and slammed it shut.

  “Hey!” she said. The car pulled away from the curb, leaving her standing there. She caught only a glimpse of the back of the driver’s head… but she was suddenly sure it wasn’t her uncle at all. It wasn’t even his car.

  “Weird,” she muttered. She must have made a mistake.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “You’re not going to shoot me, Jack.” Charlie’s voice behind the mask was muffled, but confident.

  Jack kept the gun leveled at Charlie’s belly. “If I have to, I will. Keep driving.”

  “Can I take the headgear off?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Charlie pulled the helmet off at a red light. “Ah, that’s better,” he said, smiling. “Face-to-face at last.”

  “You fucking bastard,” Jack said.

  “I know questions are really your forte,” Charlie said, “but I have a few of my own. How’d you find me?”

  “Falmi helped me track down Stedman. You’d already decoyed him away from his niece, but I convinced him to tell me where they were supposed to be meeting.”

  “How? Pull a few teeth?”

  “No. I told him I’d found a cell phone in the back of my cab and his number was the first one in the directory.”

  “And he told you his niece’s cell phone had recently been stolen. How did you know?”

  “I found the cell phone you stashed under the bed to incriminate Falmi.”

  “So Stedman gave you a description and told you where she�
�d be, so you could return her phone. Smart.” Charlie nodded. “I have to say, this is both a relief and a disappointment. I mean, I’ve really enjoyed our interaction online and I’m sorry it’s over, but it’s also great to be able to talk honestly—”

  Jack hit him in the mouth with the gun. Charlie’s head snapped back; the car swerved abruptly to the right, and then Charlie regained control. He glanced at Jack, and grinned. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He spat a tooth onto the dashboard.

  “Heh. Guess I should have expected that,” he said.

  “You’re going to be a long time dying,” Jack said.

  “Before you hit me again, you should know—I have Nikki.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Five foot six in her bare feet, bright blue eyes, nice tan, and a charm bracelet she’s very attached to; I couldn’t get it off. I’ll bet every one of those charms reminds her of a different dead friend… that’s how you persuaded her to join you, isn’t it?”

  “Tell me how you found her.”

  “You really are brilliant, Jack. Your secret weapon? A hooker! All those people who thought the Closer had to be a cop, using inside information to nail serial killers… and it turns out his information is a lot more ‘inside’ than anybody thought.” Charlie laughed out loud, exposing bloodstained teeth. “I mean, come on! It’s like Batman pimping Robin! ‘Let’s go, Boy Wonder—and don’t forget the Bat-Condoms!’”

  “Tell me where she is.”

  “She’s tied up, with a limited oxygen supply,” Charlie said. “About an hour’s worth. Think you can break me in an hour, Jack?”

  “No.”

  “Good answer! You played a nice end-game, Jack, but I’ve been playing this game longer than you. …I knew you two must have had a little spat after doing the Gourmet. That didn’t go quite as planned, did it? Police reports were sketchy, but they made it sound more like a home invasion gone wrong than an interrogation.”

  “I cut her loose. I can always find another whore.”

  “Excellent, Jack. Always negotiate from a position of strength… and knowledge is strength. You want to know how I found her? Easy. I never really lost her. Nikki Jasper. Thirty-four. Born in Toronto, birthday is April 11. I hired a private detective to keep tabs on you three years ago, Jack—ugly little fellow, but very efficient. After you recruited Nikki, I had her checked out quite thoroughly. See, I always had high hopes for you, Jack. I kept an eye on you… right from the beginning.”

  “You knew I was the Closer. All along.”

  “Of course. This whole dance was choreographed, Jack. I could’ve stopped you at any time… but why should I? Do you realize how singular you and I are? There is no one—no one—in the world who has accomplished what you and I have. We belong to the realm of legend… and when you and your sidekick split up, I knew Vancouver was the place she’d probably run back to. Just like you did. Despite what you say, the two of you must have quite the bond. Guess the only tie stronger than sex is death. Isn’t it, Jack?”

  “Where are we going?” They’d been driving for a few minutes now; Charlie had taken them north, toward the industrial docks on the other side of Hastings.

  “I want to show you something. Don’t worry, Nikki’s nearby. You might even save her life …if you’ll listen to me for a few minutes more.”

  Charlie pulled the car into a gravel parking lot beside a two-story warehouse. A faded, barely legible sign over the door read Kim Luc Imports.

  Charlie turned off the motor. “Come on in, Jack. Not too many people have seen this.” He got out of the car. Jack followed, keeping the gun on him. Charlie hardly seemed to notice it was there.

  Charlie unlocked the front door and they went inside. The interior of the warehouse wasn’t what Jack expected; the ceiling was no higher than an ordinary room, but a long hallway extended all the way to the back of the building, at least a hundred feet. Doorways were spaced evenly along its length on either side. Overhead spotlights sprang to life as Charlie flicked a switch.

  “This is my real gallery, Jack,” Charlie said. “Every- thing in here, I’m directly responsible for. None of it would exist without me. I want you to consider that before you do anything else.” For the first time Jack got a good look at the outfit Charlie was wearing: a breastplate made of stained glass in a solar design, a blue toga emblazoned with suns, and boots and gauntlets made of leather and polished copper. He looked like a modern-day incarnation of Nero, an emperor of madness and flames.

  Jack raised the gun. “Ten minutes. After that, you take me to Nikki—or I’ll burn everything in this place, piece by piece, and make you watch.”

  Charlie’s grin vanished. He nodded. “Fair enough. This way…”

  Everything in the first room was made of light.

  At least, that was how it seemed to Jack. The artist had used various sources of light—neon, bulbs, ultra-violet, even monitors—then redirected them with mirrors, magnifiers, colored filters. Specific images were heightened or reflected, multiplied or distorted. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, shards of mirror suspended from electroluminescent wires of vivid scarlet. In the center of the chandelier, a nude figurine of glass, a woman with her arms over her head. The base of the figurine held a bulb that simulated a candle flame; the light seemed to fill the figure to bursting. Every line of her body was underscored in brilliance, from the muscled tautness of her calves to the elegant curves between hip and breast. The shards surrounding her revolved slowly: one side was a true mirror, while the other was some kind of foil, ever so slightly crinkled, reflecting an image warped and jagged. The shards were hung so thickly it was impossible to see the entire figure at once—glimpses of beauty were all you could catch, interspersed with bits of unpredictable, distorted sharpness.

  The piece was simply labeled Memory. It was the most beautiful thing Jack had ever seen.

  There were others, too: a cluster of words made from blue neon, interlinked in such a way that they merged into a complex maze at their center—Jack could make out Skin, Sweet and Loss. There were images projected onto twisting screens of silk, mosaics made of stained glass, even a hologram suspended in a teardrop-shaped container of liquid. The same woman appeared in almost every piece.

  “You killed her,” Jack said.

  “And he immortalized her,” Charlie replied. “In beauty, and wonder, and awe. You can’t deny it, Jack… there is genius here. I know you see it. And I created it.”

  “It’s too high a price.”

  “Is it? Come on, Jack—you went to art school, you know how many artists had horrible, screwed-up lives. True talent thrives under that kind of pressure. All I’m doing is replacing the chaos of natural disasters with directed ones….”

  “I understand the process. What I don’t understand is what you want from me,” Jack snarled. “I’m not going to create anything like this, Charlie. I create suffering, I create horror. I’m not your greatest success, I’m your biggest failure.”

  “Not true,” Charlie said softly. He put a hand up to the chandelier, set it spinning with a gentle push. “All the artists who are represented here have one thing in common: their art is reactive. They’re responding to what I did to them, to their lives. But you—you did something else. You made a choice, turned your pain inward instead of outward. You chose transformation over expression.”

  “I know what I did.”

  “But you don’t understand the implications. Expression is basically selfish—but what you did was not. You gave up your humanity, Jack. You chose to become a monster, for the sake of the greater good. Just like me.”

  “What?” Jack whispered.

  Charlie spread his arms, indicated the art around him. “Right now, the value of all this is going up and up,” Charlie said. “And when it gets high enough, I’m going to sell. Send it out into the world. And long after those people I killed are forgotten, all this will live on. It will inspire, it will uplift, it will bring joy. In the end, I’ll have made the wor
ld a better place….”

  “And you’ll be rich.”

  “Yes. And you’ll be dead or in jail… unless you join me.”

  Jack just stared at him.

  “We deserve to be rewarded, Jack. Both of us. We do important work, and we do it isolated and unthanked. That’s why I joined the Stalking Ground in the first place—I wanted to find someone I could share this with. Someone who might understand. All I found were lunatics and rapists—until you.”

  “What do you want from me? Congratulations? Absolution? What?” Jack shouted.

  “I want a partnership, Jack,” Charlie said. “You and me. You keep the Stalking Ground going, and I keep doing what I do. I’m a much better partner than Nikki could ever be… because I can do things she’d never dare. With my credibility on your side, we can triple the size of the Stalking Ground—you’ll have your pick of victims. We can go global, Jack. Think of all the killers you can end—”

  “Anyone but you,” Jack said. “I can kill anyone but you.”

  “Yes.” Charlie met Jack’s eyes. “We’ve been friends a long time, Jack. Right now, you might think you don’t really know me—but you do. You know what matters to me. I really think we could make this work… as long as we maintain the balance of power. I’m going to take something out now; don’t be alarmed.” From the folds of his toga, Charlie pulled out a small black unit that looked like a remote control. He held it up for Jack to see. “This is a little extra insurance, Jack. I press this button, Nikki’s air supply gets cut off. She’ll asphyxiate in around two minutes. I’ll make you a deal, though—I’ll trade this for your gun.”

  Jack thought about it. “Deal.”

  He held out the gun, still pointed at Charlie’s head. He reached for the remote—and at the last second, hit the cartridge release. The magazine dropped to the floor as Charlie took the gun and Jack snatched the remote.

  Charlie laughed. He tucked the gun into his belt as Jack kicked the magazine into a corner. “Nicely done. Now that we’re on a more even footing, I want you to give serious consideration to my offer. And if you accept—Nikki goes free.”