Ames To Kill (Three Full-Length Thrillers): The Killing League, The Recruiter, Killing the Rat

by Dan Ames

  “They’re very good,” he said. “There’s nothing better than fresh blueberries and I think we’ve got some real maple syrup somewhere.”

  He stood and moved toward the kitchen when she spoke again.

  “But someone really was watching me,” she said. “A man.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Commissioner

  THE MAN STRAPPED into the fishing chair of the seventy-two foot Hatteras sportfishing boat was known to the Internet hacking community as Millipede. He’d earned the nickname from his own spyware program, one of the first of its kind, that had an amazing ability to grow millions of “legs” and scurry from one secure server to another, undetected.

  The legend known as Millipede was tied to the fishing chair with thick cords, his eyes were wide, and the strip of duct tape across his mouth held firm against his screams.

  The man who called himself The Commissioner looked at his captive. He was amused by Millipede (whose real name he knew to be Keith Goulet) because even though the man was in his forties, he dressed like a high school burnout; he had on dirty black pants and a stained Metallica t-shirt. He was barefoot.

  They were just off the coast of California, and the Commissioner turned from the bound hacker and poured buckets of blood and fish guts over the side of the boat into the sapphire blue of the ocean.

  Already, he had seen at least one Great White shark cruise by.

  “Carcharodon carcharias,” he said over his shoulder. “Very impressive, aren’t they?”

  The hacker lunged against his restraints and screamed into the tape which turned his terror into a series of muffled gibberish.

  The Commissioner ignored him and tossed the last of the bloody chum into the water. Something in the churning water thrashed, and foam sprayed the side of the boat.

  The Commissioner walked into the boat’s forward cabin, and returned with a small medical kit. He opened it and took out a scalpel. The sunlight caught the knife’s razor sharp edge and flashed in the lenses of his mirrored aviator sunglasses.

  He stood in front of his prey.

  “When I was a kid I loved to fish,” he said. He smiled and his teeth were a brilliant white. “There was something so elegant about it. The art of the presentation. The idea of a human being, the most intelligent creature on the planet, trying to think like a fish. And outsmart it. So silly, yet so intriguing.”

  He reached forward and with the scalpel sliced the man’s t-shirt down the middle, then pulled it off his body. The hacker’s eyes were wide and filled with tears that ran down his face, glistening when they hit the duct tape.

  “Have you ever gone fishing before?” The Commissioner asked as he put the scalpel back in the medical kit. The hacker shook his head.

  “Ah, well, this may not be the experience to use as criteria for your opinion of the sport.”

  The Commissioner sighed. “Of course, you were sort of fishing when you snooped around the servers at CPAC, weren’t you?” CPAC stood for California Programming and Computing, a state-run facility used by select members of certain communities who needed the power of a supercomputer for various activities.

  “Mmmmphhh, mmmpphhh!” the man urged behind the duct tape.

  “You really didn’t get close,” The Commissioner said. “But you got close enough. And you know that expression ‘never bullshit a bullshitter?’ Same goes for hacking. Never hack a hacker. Especially one much more talented than you.”

  The Commissioner walked back to the captain’s quarters and returned with a large treble hook, attached to a thick rope. He set the hook on the deck, next to the fishing chair.

  He picked up the scalpel.

  “This should be very interesting,” he said. He placed the scalpel’s point just above the man’s belly button, and pressed. Blood immediately ran from the wound and the hacker strained against his restraints, screaming into the duct tape.

  The Commissioner reached inside the incision, and pulled out a small section of the man’s intestine.

  “What’s so interesting to me is that the small intestine is about twenty feet long.” He reached down, picked up the treble hook, and impaled the section of small intestine on the barbed point of the hook. He pulled out more intestine, and wound it around the hook, stabbing the point of the hook through the intestine several times.

  “So how much do you think we’ll have to feed out before we hook one of these big boys?”

  The hacker had passed out, so the Commissioner retrieved a smelling salt from the medical kit and brought him back to consciousness.

  Once the man’s eyes were open the Commissioner pulled the hook toward the stern of the boat.

  “Fishing is so relaxing!” he said, and tossed the hook into the water. There was an immediate eruption of water and the intestine pulled from the hacker’s body with astonishing speed.

  “We got one!” the Commissioner called out as intestine sped from the man’s body like an extension cord being reeled back in. The rope leapt from the deck and fed out with the intestine, hissing as it went over the boat’s transom.

  The hacker looked down, saw the rope was tied around his waist and through his legs in a “Y” pattern.

  The rope sizzled and the Commissioner used the scalpel to slash the cords holding the man to the chair. Immediately, the hacker was yanked from the chair, over the boat’s stern and into the water.

  The Commissioner watched as the body became the centerpiece of a feeding frenzy. When the best of it was over he turned back to the deck and began hosing off the blood, whistling as he worked. He would be meticulous as always, eliminating any traces of the hacker. But he wasn’t worried. He had no ties at all to him, other than the security breach that no one else knew about. And never would.

  No, he would take his time cleaning up and then he would return to the thing that mattered more to him than anything had ever mattered before.

  The Killing League.

  TICKETS TO THE BIG DANCE

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Florence Nightmare

  RUTH DYKSTRA WALKED in the front door of her small, two-bedroom house. She shut and turned all three deadbolts, then fastened the door’s security chain. She walked through the cramped living room, set her purse in a fuchsia colored armchair by the door and went into the kitchen.

  She set the mail on the kitchen table and put a pot of water on to boil for tea, then walked back into her living room and stood for a moment. Something felt strange to her. A buzzing in her gut worked its way to her arms and down to her fingers. She drummed them in a fast, staccato rhythm against her ample thighs.

  Ruth looked around the living room, momentarily calmed by the tidiness of the room. There were two chairs, a table, a small television that went mostly unused and a mocha colored throw rug in the middle of the floor.

  Her eyes were drawn, as always, to the paintings that took up most of the wall space in the living room. They were of various shapes and sizes, colors and shadings. But they all shared the same artistic style, the same palette, and the same named signed in the lower right hand corner.

  Dykstra.

  Each painting contained an image of a face. Not the same face. In each work, the countenance was unique. But all of the creations shared a similar theme. The individuals represented on the canvases were all twisted in agony. In pain. The mouths and eyes screamed for mercy. Cried for compassion. Begged for life. Clearly, the artist seemed to say, all of these protestations stood no chance of being answered.

  The strange sensation Ruth Dykstra felt earlier had vanished. That was one of the reasons she painted. It gave her pleasure, yes. In fact, she was compelled to paint, it wasn’t a choice. But they also brought her comfort. Through them she was able to relive every one of her achievements.

  She went back into the kitchen, shut off the burner, and poured the hot water into a cup. She dunked the teabag a few times, wrapped the string around it and the spoon, then carried the tea to the kitchen table.

  She went throu
gh the small amount of mail she had received that day. A bill from the utility company. A flyer from the grocery store.

  And an envelope with a gold ribbon around it.

  She was about to tear it open when she looked to see from where it had been mailed.

  There was no postmark.

  She jumped to her feet and snatched the biggest, longest knife from her knife block. She went through her entire house, the two small bedrooms, the one tiny bathroom, the closets, and the one-car garage.

  There was no one. Nor was there any sign that someone had been in her house.

  But someone had. She was sure of that.

  She went to the kitchen counter and stood at the table, looking at the card with the gold ribbon.

  No, she wasn’t imagining things, like she had done often when she was a child. Before they started giving her all kinds of medication. Medication she had stopped a long time ago.

  She took a deep breath, sat down at the table and used the knife to open the envelope.

  A single small square of paper with a formal script fell from the card.

  RUTH DYKSTRA, you have been selected as a competitor in The Killing League. Based on your most recent murders, including cute little Patricia Sirrine (how clever to inject her eye!) you are sure to be a worthy opponent. Below are your travel instructions and ticket. If you don’t follow these instructions, the good folks in law enforcement will soon be hearing about your involvement in the mystery deaths at the hospital. In other words, I’m looking forward to meeting you! Good luck!

  The Commissioner

  A TICKET FELL OUT.

  Ruth Dykstra looked at the ticket attached to the inside of the card. She read it, then read it again. It had her name, a date, a time, and detailed travel instructions.

  Her face had gone ashen gray and she looked at the knife still in her hand. She considered applying it across one wrist, and then the other. She always knew some day, even though she was too smart to ever actually get caught, that something beyond her control could happen. Something that would result in people learning of her achievements.

  She took another deep breath, put the knife down, and sipped from her tea.

  No, she wouldn’t cut her wrists open. Some day maybe, but not now.

  She needed to find out who this person was, who had found her, and who had started this so-called tournament.

  Her jaw set. She felt a coldness in her chest, felt it spread throughout her body and soothe her frayed nerves.

  She was upset and angry and ready to find the person responsible for this league. She would find the person and take care of him.

  But she was also curious.

  And deep down, she knew she could win.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mack

  WHEN MACK BUILT his home in Florida, he took special care in the location of his office. The main goal was to make it separate from any living area that he and Janice would share. He also made sure his office door had a lock. He didn’t need Janice to see photos of murder victims plastered along the wall.

  Ultimately he chose to put the study on the other side of his bedroom with a door that was kept locked. Only he and Adelia had a key.

  Now, he sat in the study, staring at the walls covered with maps and photographs, each representing a serial killer he knew was active at this very moment.

  He hadn’t shared everything with the students at Quantico, but just about everything. He’d left out a few key details.

  Of all of them, he felt closest to catching the I-75 killer. He just needed the reports from the Trucking Commission. Once he had those, he knew he’d be close. He felt a momentary flash of anger and frustration that he had not yet received the information. It always amazed him at the callousness of bureaucracies. People became so immersed in the mundane daily task of paperwork and menial jobs that they forgot how important small things could be. In this case, a request from an FBI agent was met with silence. How many more lives would be lost because some clerk at a trucking organization hated his job?

  Mack made a mental note to send a second request for the records, this one with some vaguely threatening language that would be sure to get the ball rolling.

  He looked at the map and the other cases. The blonde girls in suburban Chicago. He felt very good about his profile on that one. Mack was sure the perp lived in the area. Probably a man, mid to late thirties, middle-class, in a position of authority with some respect in the community. Probably married with a family of his own, but unhappy with his life.

  The profile was as thorough as he could make it. But so far, no one had officially requested his thoughts on the case. Local law enforcement had to request help from the FBI, and if they had, Whidby had prevented the request from filtering down to Mack.

  He also felt good about his profile in the series of missing prostitutes in Boston. Several eyewitnesses had reported a luxury sedan, either a Mercedes or a BMW, in the vicinity when the girls were said to have gone missing.

  This one was a highly organized killer, Mack knew. To snatch prostitutes, most likely kill them, and keep the bodies hidden required some careful planning. If in fact the perp drove an expensive car, it meant he was most likely a white male, above average intelligence, narcissistic and concerned wholly with satisfying his own pleasures.

  The profile reminded him of Jeffrey Kostner. Kostner had raped, tortured and killed six women before finally meeting his match in Nicole Candela. Mack thought briefly of Nicole Candela. Wondered how she was doing.

  But most of all, he wondered if she ever thought about him.

  There was a knock on the office door.

  “I’m ready!” Janice called out.

  Mack shut down his computer, stepped out of the office, closing and locking the door behind him.

  Janice had on shorts, a tank top and her walking shoes.

  “I want to see some birds!” she said.

  Mack smiled. “Me, too.”

  He put on his running shoes, closed up the house, set the alarm and walked outside with Janice.

  There was a nature preserve at the end of their street. It was Janice’s favorite place in the world. There were at least six different trails. One took walkers along a narrow river, another deep into marsh, and another often treated hikers to a sight of wild pigs crashing through the underbrush.

  “Let’s do the water one,” Janice said. Mack knew she meant the river trail.

  “That sounds good,” he said.

  “That’s where the man was watching me,” Janice said. She pointed toward the side of the house where her bedroom was located.

  Mack walked over and looked at the grass. He saw no signs of foot traffic, but the grass was the Florida variety, thick and almost plastic-like.

  He looked up at the house. There was motion lights at the front and rear of the house, but not on this side. However, the alarm system was state-of-the-art. And Janice’s windows were always locked shut, for various reasons.

  “Come on, let’s go!” Janice sang out. Mack loved these walks with his sister. He couldn’t help but be reminded of when she was a little girl, all happy and smiles and laughter.

  They walked down the long drive toward the street. She slipped her hand inside his.

  Mack smiled.

  Janice swung her arms and began to skip down the driveway.

  “What the heck,” Mack said.

  And he started skipping with his sister.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Truck Drivin’ Man

  HORVATH TRUCKING WAS a small-time operation, based outside Macon, Georgia. It consisted of a main office, a refurbished doublewide on cinderblocks, and a yard filled with at least fifty trucks and twice as many trailers.

  Each driver had their own mail slot at the main office and Roger Dawson, fresh from delivering his load of steel cable, a load that had shifted several times and required way more attention than Dawson had been willing to give, walked up the steps to the office.

  The secretary, a woman
named Connie, was at the back of the small space making a photocopy when Dawson entered. She turned, glanced, and nodded at him.

  Dawson looked at Connie but didn’t make eye contact. He’d asked her out not long after he first started working for Horvath Trucking. He hadn’t planned on asking her out, but it just slipped out. He’d fumbled the question and it came out awkwardly. He’d felt like an asshole by the time he was done with the asking.

  She turned him down flat. Practically laughed at him, like he was just another loser driving a truck. Like he wasn’t good enough to kiss her flabby white ass.

  Later, he’d heard her talking and laughing with some other drivers and he knew she was making fun of him. Ever since, he’d ignored her. Fucking bitch. Oh, how he would have loved to hurt her. But he knew you couldn’t shit where you ate. So he left her in his mind, where he repeatedly fucked her and broke her neck.

  Now, Dawson went to his mailbox, grabbed the small bundle, made sure the paycheck was in there, and went back out to the yard.

  In the sunlight, the air held a dusty haze from the dirt kicked up by the trailer trucks. Dawson felt the dust in his eyes, and welcomed it. He was a man of the dirt. A man of the Earth. He thought about his parents, those two always had dirt, and his father, blood, under their fingernails.

  Dawson looked at his index finger. No dirt, but a little grime from the trailer’s electrical cables. He was good with his hands and made repairs to his rig most of the other drivers had to have done by a mechanic.

  Dawson slid the tip of his finger beneath the folded part of a fancy envelope he’d gotten that had been underneath his paycheck. He’d double checked the front of the card, because he’d never gotten anything this fancy-ass in his entire life.

  But there it was on the front: Mr. Roger Dawson. He smirked at the “Mr.” Usually only the lot lizards called him that.

  He ripped open the envelope and pulled out a card. It read “Truck Drivin’ Man” on the cover.

  Dawson’s thick brow furrowed. What the fuck was this? He flipped open the card and read what was inside.