Mind Games

by Polly Iyer

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, and, Ernie, catch that fucker. And when you do, give him one for me.”

  Lucier left the hospital, fire in his belly. Where are you, Harley Macon? Where do you have her? By the time he arrived back at his office, he was more determined than ever to stop Macon from doing the inevitable. “Okay, guys, tell me something good.”

  Both Beecher and Cash followed him into the office and took seats.

  “The prison faxed the psychiatrist’s report on Macon,” Beecher said. “Shrink said he wouldn’t talk about his mother. Reading between the lines, I’d say he came to the same conclusion the girlfriend did. I tried to track him down, but he died a few years ago. As far as being anyone’s love slave in the joint, the first time someone came on to him, young Harley snapped his neck. Could’ve killed him, but he did enough damage to put the guy in a neck brace for six months. Officials said he was justified. No one touched him after that, at least not so anyone knew. But…”

  “But what?”

  “During the time Macon was in the joint, two guys were murdered. Broken necks. Both were known homosexuals and both had been sexually active before they were snuffed. They never found the responsible party and sloughed it off as lovers’ quarrels. But the MO sure fits. Maybe Macon was in the closet. Anyone’s guess. Officially, he was a model prisoner.”

  “Interesting,” Lucier said. “Any prisoners from New Orleans he might have befriended?”

  “A guy by the name of Joey Dree. Came from up Saint Mark Parish. They were pretty tight until Joey got out about eight years ago.”

  “What was he in for?” Lucier asked.

  “Get this―forgery,” Beecher said with raised eyebrows. “Pretty good too, from what I understand.”

  “Hmm, Macon could have hit him up for some phony papers, license, ID. Now, tell me what I want to hear. Where was Diana Racine last year during his poor mother’s supposed demise?”

  “Guess,” Cash said.

  “Damn, I’m good. This is the guy. I’ll stake my reputation I’m right. Hell, I am staking my reputation.” And Diana’s life. “Any unsolved sexual cases during that time?”

  “There’s an unsolved case involving a hooker. Hard to determine whether she was sexually assaulted or whether she had consensual sex before someone slit her throat.”

  “That’s not this guy’s MO, but if he’s as smart as I think, he’d avoid a formula and change his techniques. Check Charleston, Willy. See if they have any similar unsolved murders. He picked hookers because no one goes into overdrive to find their killers.” He hated saying that, but fact was fact.

  “There’s more,” Cash said. “Remember the three unsolved murders near Macon’s hometown? All young girls. I spoke to the cop on the case twenty-two years ago. He’s retired now, but he’s positive Macon was responsible. Said the boy was cold as ice. Even passed a polygraph.”

  “Jesus,” Beecher said.

  “The man’s a serial killer, and he’ll kill Diana as soon as his twisted mind’s satisfied with whatever he has to prove,” Lucier said, almost to himself. He glanced up at four staring eyes. “What are you looking at? We’ve got work to do.”

  “This guy isn’t using his own car. Willy, check the rental agencies from Charleston to New Orleans. Not every agency rents Corollas. That should narrow the field some. When you get the list, fax his photo to see if we can get an ID. Sure would help to know what name he’s using. Maybe he drove his own car last year. That’d help put him here.”

  “Putting him here doesn’t make him guilty, Lieutenant,” Cash said.

  “But it hammers another nail into his coffin. Macon was in prison a long time with Diana Racine eating a hole in his gut. And Dree was ready and waiting with forged documents when he got out. Any luck tracking him down yet, Sam.”

  “Still working on it,” Beecher said.

  “He knows where Macon is and what name he’s using. I’ll flash Macon’s picture around the hotels and see if anyone places him here last year.”

  “That’s a needle in a haystack, boss,” Cash said.

  “I know.”

  Traffic during Mardi Gras was crazy, with revelers in full regalia flooding the streets. Lucier wended his way through the throng, showing Macon’s photo to desk clerks at every hotel in the Quarter. If only he knew the damn name Macon used. Of course, he could have stayed out of town. Then he thought, what if it isn’t Macon?

  It is. It has to be.

  After three hours with no results, he was about to call it quits when the desk clerk at a small hotel one block out of the Quarter thought the face on the photo looked familiar. Going back to the week in question, he pulled the invoice off the computer.

  “I’m pretty sure this is the guy,” the clerk said, handing Lucier the printout. “Good-looking dude. That’s why I remember him ’cause I thought, you know, he might be interested. He was almost beautiful. Usually that’s worth a shot, but not with this guy. If the look he gave me was an arrow, damn thing would have gone straight through my heart.”

  Lucier read the name off the hotel record: James Randall. So, he did have a phony ID.

  “What else do you remember about him?”

  “He asked directions,” the clerk said. “We were real busy, but this guy kept bugging me, and he didn’t care if there was a line of people waiting.”

  “Can you remember any of the places he asked about?” Lucier pressed. “It’s very important.”

  “Lemme see, yeah, he asked directions to Baton Rouge. Mentioned taking a tourist trip up the bayous, I think. I didn’t understand why he wasn’t interested in all the goings on in the Quarter. The place was filled with women, and since he was straight, and looking like he did, he could’ve had his pick. Seemed kind of strange.”

  “This his car?” Lucier asked pointing to the printout.

  The clerk looked at the hotel registration. “Yup, he used hotel parking. Took the car out three times during the week. Nissan Sentra, Louisiana plates. There’s the license number.”

  “How’d he pay?”

  “Let’s see.” He scanned the paper. “Yup, thought so. Paid in cash, up front. Said he never used credit cards.”

  “And no phone calls. Mind if I keep this?”

  “Sure, it’s in the computer.”

  “If you remember anything else, here’s my card.”

  After leaving the hotel, Lucier dialed Beecher on his cell. “Sam, Macon used the name James Randall last year. See if that matches any of the names on the car rentals and anything local.” He mentioned the Nissan and gave him the plates. “Anything on Dree?”

  “Got an address up in Saint Mark Parish, out of our jurisdiction.”

  “Call the sheriff’s department over there. Tell them what we’re dealing with. They’ll work with us. Dree’s the key. See you in twenty minutes.”

  Lucier walked back toward the station. Everything about this case and the speed with which it unfolded made him play hunch after hunch. He had only his gut instinct with no room to miscalculate. That had never been his style. He’d always been a Joe Friday kind of cop: just the facts, ma’am, only the facts. Now someone’s life depended on his intuition.

  Diana’s life.

  A little heart-to-heart with Joey Dree would determine his next move. That’s if he could find the ex-prison mate and if Joey Dree would rat on his friend and help.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A Trip to the Non-Virgin Islands

  Squinting through one open eye, Diana spied Macon sitting in the rickety chair, his face half in shadow. She smelled the coffee that steamed from a mug on the bedside table, next to a grease-stained paper bag.

  He freed her from the four corners of the bed, and she slowly pulled herself to a sitting position. Every joint creaked from the stiffness. A sharp prick in her ribs caused a muffled wince. After a sip of the watery brew, she wished she had pretended to be asleep.

  “I got this chicken last night,” Macon said, “but you were knocked ou
t. I warmed a piece for breakfast.”

  Knocked out, indeed. “Thanks.” Her stomach growled with hunger, and she savored every bite. Best damn chicken she ever put in her mouth, even though the slimy grease oozed from the soggy crust and coated her lips. She remembered her daddy’s words from the early days when they were hopping from city to city, from one show to another, eating whenever they found time: If you’re hungry enough, anything tastes good. Boy, was he right. “I don’t suppose you have any scotch.”

  “For breakfast?”

  She looked up at him. He had washed and changed his shirt, his dark blond hair damp around his face and neck. “This isn’t a normal morning. Special occasions call for special rewards.”

  “No rewards for you. Never been a drinker myself. Messes up my mind.”

  Well, we sure as hell wouldn’t want to do that, but she kept the insult to herself. No sense starting the day by pissing him off.

  When nothing remained on her Styrofoam plate but picked-clean bones, he put it on the table and led her to the bathroom. “Don’t do anything stupid. Pee and get out.”

  “I need to wash up.”

  “I put a towel on the back of the toilet.”

  Diana did the best she could with what she had, worrying that Macon would barge through the door. What difference did it make? He’d already seen her. She poured a drizzle of water from the jug on part of the towel and performed what her mother called a lick and a promise. She never knew what that meant until now. She finger-brushed her teeth and splashed water on her face and avoided looking in the mirror until the very end. Her swollen and bruised face made her wish she’d avoided the vanity.

  As soon as she opened the bathroom door, Macon grabbed her shoulder and slammed her against the wall. In a perfectly coordinated motion, one hand clasped her wrists with a vice-like grip, pinning them above her head. She raised her knee to his groin in a pathetic attempt to fight back, but he dodged out of the way, amused.

  Fuck you! Begging you to stop would give you too much pleasure, and I’ll be damned first. Nothing she said would stop him anyway. Not until he takes what he wants. Once she realized she was no match for his strength, she stopped fighting.

  Close your eyes and relax, Diana. Make it as easy on yourself as possible. Go somewhere else in your mind until he’s through. Think about a Caribbean island. Think about the blue-green waters of the Virgin Islands splashing over your body, warm from the tropical sun, salt lingering on your lips. Think about anything, except what he’s doing to you.

  After what seemed an eternity, he satisfied himself. When she opened her eyes, he stared. If he expected a reaction, he’d be disappointed. She gave him none. But neither did she receive any. No sensations or vibes or psychic penetration. Nothing to tune into this man except the cold, unemotional stare of evil.

  When he let go, her legs buckled and she slumped to the floor, biting the inside of her lip on impact. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. He bent down, breathed in her ear. “Did you enjoy that?”

  The vibrations of his attack surged through her exhausted body. Lifting her head became a Herculean task. Her arms felt like weighted sacks of cement. She noticed her swollen left wrist had mutated from ripe red to a vibrant purple-blue.

  “You must be out of your mind if you think anyone enjoys being savaged like that.”

  A grave mistake. A swift flash of lightning struck as his closed fist connected with her jaw.

  “Don’t you ever learn?”

  Good thing I’m on the floor. I won’t have far to fall, she thought as the room dwindled into a pinpoint and went dark.

  * * * * *

  When she opened her eyes, she was on the cot, and he stood over her. She wasn’t cuffed.

  “There are some things you should never say to me.”

  “One by one, I’m finding out what they are, but no need to apologize.” She thought he was going to burst out laughing, but he stared in disbelief at either her gall or stupidity.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you then. I lost my temper.”

  Now she squelched the urge to laugh, remembering one of the great sins against Harley Macon. She didn’t think she could laugh anyway. Her jaw felt like a wedge had been inserted into the joint. She tried wiggling it around to find its original place, but pain shot into every canal in her head, like the worst toothache. Words sputtered in raspy croaks.

  “You raped me, socked me in the jaw, and you didn’t mean to hurt me? You son of a bitch.” Every muscle in her body tensed, expecting a physical onslaught. Even those imperceptible movements made her wince.

  “Every woman wants to be taken. You want men to dominate you.”

  “I can see you haven’t been around for the last twenty years, but given the circumstances, I don’t see the point of enlightening you.”

  “How did you know I haven’t been around for twenty years?”

  Damn! And then she remembered. “You told me, remember? When you said I put you in jail for twenty years.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “I forgot.”

  “So you know, I don’t want to be dominated. I don’t want to be taken. And I sure as hell don’t want to be raped. Not to wound your overactive ego, Harley, if that’s possible, but I found no pleasure in what seemed to turn you on so much.”

  “I don’t know any man who wouldn’t be insulted when a woman tells him she doesn’t enjoy his lovemaking.” Macon held her eyes. “Except me, of course.”

  In spite of the predictable repercussion, Diana did laugh, ribs tweaking her insides like needles. “Lovemaking? Is that what you call that?”

  Unfazed by the insult, he said, “Tomorrow we start our little game. Let’s see how good Diana Racine really is.”

  “I won’t play. I refuse to be an instrument of death. You can do whatever you want to me. I won’t play because the game’s not fair.”

  “Ah, but what’s fair in life? Not too much. Not for most of us anyway. You’ll play.”

  She wanted to wipe that arrogant smirk of his face but decided to put that off for another time. “Make it a fair game and you won’t have to force me.”

  “What’s fair to you?”

  He was toying with her, but she had nothing to lose. “Don’t kill anyone. Tie her up, hide her somewhere, but don’t kill her. If I tell you where she is, you have to let her go. And you can’t close your mind, otherwise the game’s not fair.”

  Macon laughed, his handsome face a constantly-changing drama mask of evil and innocence. “Why should I? She’ll identify me. I can’t very well seduce someone with a mask on, now can I? Besides, the ultimate turn on is the kill.”

  His answer confirmed what Diana already suspected. Macon couldn’t let her live, nor his next victim. He’d have to kill her. She had no illusions about her physical toughness. The next assault would break her, and soon her mental toughness would falter as well. It already had to some degree. He was counting on that to win his wicked game. Break her down, break her concentration—dilute her ability to read his mind. Come on, Ernie. Find me. You have to know it’s Macon. You have to.

  To survive, she needed to find a way to delve into his psyche, to make him think he wanted what she wanted, an obvious ploy of reverse psychology. The pounding in the back of her skull gave new understanding to how prizefighters turned punchy after years of constant battering. It hurt to talk, and he’d see through the transparency, but she had to plant the seed.

  “I don’t think you want to know who’s superior. You’re afraid it’s me and always has been. I know, and that’s all that counts.” She lay back on the bed. “I don’t care what you do.”

  Macon remained silent for a long time before he spoke. “Okay, we’ll play your way,” he said, nudging her. “For a while. To see how it works out.”

  His touch ignited a flash. A mere nanosecond inside the mind of Harley Macon. The flash rekindled the horrific tableau of the broken body of an innocent young girl in the town where she and Macon grew up. Had he been te
sting her even then?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Matlock in Snakeskin Boots

  Both Beecher and Cash were on their phones when Lucier got to the station. His men were working 24/7, and he knew they were as tired as he was. Sunday wasn’t a day off this week. But murders had been committed and a woman had been kidnapped. No time off for anyone until they caught Harley Macon.

  Beecher was talking to the Saint Mark Parish Sheriff’s Department about Joey Dree. Cash immediately hung up and followed him into his office.

  “Listen to this,” Cash said. “Those unsolved murders in the area where Macon grew up? They all have a few things in common: all teenage girls, all sexually assaulted with no sign of semen, all either strangled or with broken necks. And no discernible trace, at least none they picked up twenty-two years ago. Before he slipped up, the locals had no reason to connect Macon to any of the crimes.”

  “What about his mother? Did you get anything on her?” Lucier asked.

  “Not much. When Macon was eleven, mama brought a man into the house. They never married. At first, he and the boy seemed to get along fine, but then something happened. Macon changed. I couldn’t find any proof the man was abusive. From all reports, an ordinary mill-worker type. Macon still did fine in school, but uncontrollable bouts of anger outside the classroom plagued him. Nothing that caused problems with the police, though.”

  “Hmmm. Wonder what that was about. Maybe he didn’t like mama sharing her affections. Who told you this?”

  “The sheriff who tried to pin the other three murders on him. The boy adamantly maintained his innocence on all four. The mother was outraged they even considered him. Said he was being set up. Her man took off before Macon’s arrest. Disappeared, and he’s never turned up. No job history, nothing.”

  Beecher came into the office. “The Saint Mark sheriff said they’ve picked up Joey Dree. He’ll hold him until we get there, but we’d better make it fast ’cause he hasn’t got reason to keep him, and I didn’t tell him much. Dree’s already lawyered up.”

  “That’s what I call cooperation,” Lucier said. “So, listen up. We’ve established Macon was here during Mardi Gras last year using the name James Randall. He asked for the route to Baton Rouge to tour the river. My guess is he’s stashed Diana Racine somewhere up north, maybe in a secluded cabin or houseboat. And I bet Dree knows where.”