by Ray Daniel
I stripped, made a wad of my pants, and put them into a plastic bag. Perhaps the police would want them; otherwise, I’d throw them away. I enjoyed the illicit pleasure of walking around my house naked and alone.
The BlackBerry’s red light blinked. Email. I reached for the BlackBerry and stopped myself. I knew how this would go. I would read the email, feel obliged to reply, spend time crafting a response, and be right back in the maelstrom of my life. I needed five minutes of bliss before I started that again. I needed a shower.
I glanced at the email’s subject. It was from Dana and said “WTF?” Five minutes wouldn’t make a difference.
I started my shower. I ran my hand under the water and fiddled with the knobs until the water was hot enough to deliver a cleansing pain on the edge of burning. I wanted to scrub myself clean. I took a step into the shower and pulled my foot out.
The subject was WTF? What could that mean? That didn’t seem like a relationship email. This early in a relationship, that subject would have been something like How’s it going? or Miss you. WTF was something that Carol would have written. Dana’s email called to me, and I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the shower until I read it. I walked into the hallway with one wet foot and picked up the BlackBerry. Clicked on WTF?
Tucker,
Jack found me in the booth today. He’s coming to my room after the show to discuss the changes you made to the code.
WTF? How did he know that you made those changes? I thought it was our little secret.
Get back to me before 2. I need to have my story straight.
Dana
“Dammit,” I swore in the empty room. I had no idea how Jack knew about those changes. I didn’t tell him. Maybe I’d told Nate. Images of Nate flooded my mind, but I crammed them back into their hole and called Dana’s cell. No answer. I left a message and climbed back into the shower. The hot water reached into my pores and pulled out the blood, sweat, and fear-stink. They circled the drain and disappeared.
I got out of the shower and toweled dry. I saw a small blood stain from the nick on my arm. I found a Band-Aid in the medicine cabinet and covered the cut. I went back into my bedroom and got dressed in shorts, a Boston Beerworks T-shirt, and sneakers. I looked at the time. It was two o’clock. Dana would be meeting with Jack now. I was sure she’d come up with something to say.
Dmitri’s thumb drive was on the counter. I picked it up, went into my office, and stuck the drive into my computer to look at my source code, all neatly packed courtesy of my ego. I opened the thumb drive, expecting to find compressed archive file full of text. Instead, I found a movie.
The file was called pimpcam.wmv. I double-clicked on it, and the movie opened. It was at an odd angle, as if it had been taken from somewhere on the wall. The movie showed a cute girl with large breasts, brown nipples, and muscular legs. She looked familiar.
The girl looked like she might have been an athlete, but she wasn’t doing anything athletic at the moment because she was struggling in duct tape. The tape held her ankles and knees. Her arms were behind her back, and when she rolled over in her struggles, I could see her wrists and elbows were taped. Just like Alice and just like someone else I had seen. Some other girl who had been killed with duct tape. I’d seen pictures of women killed with duct tape, but only looked closely at two. They were Alice Barton and … Courtney Acres! The girl in the movie was from the pictures Kevin had showed me in the FBI conference room.
Courtney struggled in the tape. She rolled back and forth, and she tugged at her arms. Then she seemed to get tired and lay still.
A male voice spoke. “Done struggling?”
I saw him walk into the frame: the Duct Tape Killer. He tucked himself in behind Courtney, spooning her. He tickled her, nuzzling her neck as she screeched and twitched. Then he stripped another length of tape off the roll. I saw the whites of Courtney’s eyes as she tried to see what he was doing. He wrapped the tape around her face, and Courtney kicked and twitched. Tears ran from her eyes as she stopped moving. The killer raped her as she died.
Nothing beats the giddy, mind-altering experience of cracking a tough bug. You feel revelation pulse through your brain as every scrap of evidence you had gathered snaps into place. Every question has an answer. Every fact makes sense. Everything works together in a beautiful model that ticks along in your brain, explaining the bug and how to fix it. That revelation flowed through me as I watched the man in the video climb off the bed, put on his clothes, squeeze Courtney’s dead breast, and leave the room. It all made perfect sense.
My hands were shaking as I put the thumb drive in my pocket. The guy in the video was a bastard, a sadist, and a monster. He was an animal who used physical power over women to get his rocks off. He was also a business executive, family man, and community leader who helped out at the battered woman’s shelter. He was MantaSoft’s CEO Jack Kennings, and he was alone with Dana Parker on a Thursday afternoon.
fifty-nine
I grabbed my phone and ran down the stairs. Dana might be dead already. Hitting the bricks in front of my house, I ran up Follen Street. Ahead of me, a pair of young women pushed baby carriages down the bumpy brick sidewalk. I dodged left and right trying to get around them, gave up, and ran into the street.
A car buzzed past me. I tried to pace myself, but adrenaline kept pushing me from a fast trot to a sprint. After sprinting a bit, I’d go back to a trot, knowing I’d be no good to Dana after sprinting a half-mile.
When I had to stop for traffic at Huntington Avenue, I finally began using my head. I dialed Bobby Miller. If Bobby was already at the hotel, he could save Dana.
Bobby answered on the first ring. “Miller.”
“Bobby, listen. Jack Kennings is the Duct Tape Killer. He’s with Dana in her hotel room.”
“Miller.”
“Bobby!”
“Tucker, I can read a caller ID. I know it’s you, so stop fucking around.”
“Kennings is killing Dana!” I shouted.
The line went dead just as the light changed. I ran across the street pressing redial.
“Miller,” answered Bobby.
“Bobby, it’s Tucker.”
“This is Detective Miller. Who is this?”
“Shit!” I swore as I killed the call. My phone hadn’t survived its dunk in the Swan Boat pond. The microphone was dead. I ran on. The uneven bricks of the South End gave way to the smooth concrete of the Prudential shopping mall. I ran up the sidewalk in front of the mall, dodging meandering idiots.
The concrete guardians of P. F. Chang’s sprang up on my right as I slowed to a trot. My legs hadn’t recovered from last night’s chase. They burned. I sucked air and pushed myself up the street. I was tired—tired of being late, tired of being sore, tired of losing people to Jack Kennings.
I ran on. A group of little kids clogged the sidewalk. I shifted to running in the street. I ran up Dalton, past Bukowski Tavern. The convention center loomed up on my right side. I was almost to the hotel.
Then I had a revelation. I didn’t need my microphone to get help. I could still text. Standing with my back to a gray loading door of the convention center, I typed a message to Bobby Miller with trembling fingers.
“Kennings is the DTK. He’s got Dana. Rm 804”
“Tucker!” I jumped at the sound. Roland Baker blocked my way, trapping me against the loading door. Behind him, a car idled, the passenger door still open. Roland said, “Bloody hell, what are you doing here?”
I put the phone away and went to push past Roland. “Out of my way.”
He pushed me back.
I said, “I don’t have time for this. Jack is going to kill Dana.”
Roland smiled. “Of course he is.”
Roland knew? The pieces kept falling into place.
“Get out of my way, you asshole,” I said as I pushed away from the wall.
Roland stepped back and produced the same gun he’d had in the office. He said, “Get in the car. Dmitri was supposed to take care of you, but now I’ll have to do it. Jack will finish off your girlfriend. You just keep losing women to me, don’t you?” Roland’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Three days ago I had trembled at the sight of Roland’s gun. Two days ago, I had thrown my hands in the air and surrendered when I saw Dana’s gun. Now I was done being afraid of guns. I knew what to do.
I stepped forward. My forward motion surprised Roland and gave me a chance to grab his wrist. I pivoted so that I stood next to Roland with the gun pointing at empty space. Roland gripped the pistol harder and tried to pull his wrist free. I drove Roland forward and slipped my foot in front of his ankle. We fell. When we hit the ground, the gun fired. Blood sprayed across the yellow stones of the convention center wall. It wasn’t mine.
I heard a scream. “Roland!”
It was Margaret. She had been driving the car. She ran around the car, knelt beside Roland, and screamed again. I bolted toward the Boylston Suites Hotel. Images of Dana in police photos flashed through my head.
I reached Boylston Street and heard a commanding male voice behind me. “You! Stop! Police!”
I looked over my shoulder. A cop stood next to Margaret. She was pointing at me. I ran on. No time for this. Cars honked and twisted in the traffic lanes as I ran straight across the street.
I burst into the Boylston Suites lobby. People looked up from their drinks and newspapers. I ran over the bridges and around the ponds to get to the elevators. I pressed the UP button and waited, hiding behind a big plant, staring at the shiny elevator door.
The elevator was on the fourth floor. Captain and Tennille Muzak played throughout the lobby. It enraged me. The elevator was on the third floor, then the second. It stopped. I looked into the mirrored elevator door. The stitches in my forehead were wavy in the uneven surface. The cut on my ear was crusted with blood and a sheen of sweat shone off my face.
I said, “C’mon. C’mon,” and was catapulted sideways as the cop tackled me. He put a knee in my back and grabbed my wrist.
I screamed, “Let go of me. She’ll die!”
He said, “You’re under arrest.”
I struggled and he put pressure on my arm, wrenching the shoulder. I roared my frustration. I wasn’t going to save her. The cop said, “Just calm down,” and I heard him pulling out his handcuffs. Once he put them on, Dana was dead, and my last fuck-up would be over. I battered my head on the ground and wrenched my arm trying to get loose. But the cop’s grip was unbreakable.
Huey walked out of the elevator reading his BlackBerry and wearing a triangle hat. I shouted, “Huey, help!” and he didn’t hesitate. He shouted, “Get off !” and four hundred pounds of angry nerd pounded down on the cop.
The cop didn’t have time to react to the new threat. He let go of my arm and was squashed across the elevator-lobby floor as Huey bowled him over and pinned him beneath a mountain of manflesh.
I said, “Thanks, buddy!” and ran into the open elevator. As the door closed, I shouted, “Tell him I’m in room 804!” I jammed the Close Door button five or six times. Nothing happened. I pressed the 8 button again and the doors began to close. They slid shut and the elevator began to climb. It stopped on the second floor, and a guy in workout clothes tried to get on. I didn’t need any more delays. I looked him square in the eye, stepped in front of the door, and said, “Elevator’s full.” He started to step forward, stopped, looked me up and down, and let the doors close.
My breath was slowing, but adrenaline snaked through my body, making it twitch. The numbers lit in sequence over the door. Each number seemed to take twice as long as the one before it. The numbers flickered to life as their bulbs engaged at each level. The elevator’s whirring dropped in pitch as the elevator slowed on the eighth floor. It jostled up and down, lining itself up perfectly with the outside door. The elevator door creaked open, slowly creating enough room for me to slide through and out.
Dana’s room was around the atrium from the elevators. I sprinted down the hallway and came to a stop in front of 804.
I pulled out my wallet. Dana’s room key was still nestled next to my credit card and my driver’s license. I slid the room key into the slot on the front of the door.
The door blinked back red. I was locked out.
sixty
“Fuck.”
How could I be locked out? Maybe she switched rooms. Maybe she had checked out. I looked at her email again on my BlackBerry. It said, “He’s coming to my room.” What room?
The lock stopped blinking. I hammered the card-key in and out. Another red light. I peeked into the window next to the door, squinting to see through the gauzy curtain. Something was wrong. The light was on, the bedroom door was closed. Clothes were strewn on the furniture.
It was time for deep breaths. The key had to work. I must just be rushing it. I inserted the card again, this time slowly. My hand shook. I breathed deeply, then pulled the card out in a smooth motion. The light blinked green and I heard the lock cycle.
Dana’s immaculate hotel room was a mess. Her “Math Is Hard” T-shirt was thrown across the television, where it was tented over the remote. Her hot-pink bra was hanging from a lamp. One chair was thrown backwards. A man’s suit jacket was folded neatly on the couch.
I ran to the bedroom and opened the door. I didn’t knock or shout. If I was wrong and they were screwing, it would be embarrassing, but nobody dies of embarrassment. If I was right, Dana needed me. I stepped through the door, and walked into Hell.
The smell hit me first. The room stank of sweat and sex. I saw Dana’s ankles on the bed. They were tied with duct tape and kicking feebly. Jack was naked, lying on his right side, pulling her close to him as his hips thrust. He grunted with each thrust.
I stepped between the wall and the bed and grabbed Jack, wrapping my arm around his throat to get a handle on the naked man. Surprised, he flailed out. The momentum pulled him off the bed and away from Dana. He fell into the space between the bed and the wall.
Dana’s arms and legs were tied with duct tape. Her nose and mouth were blocked, just like Alice and all those others. She was convulsing. I climbed over Jack and onto the bed to get the tape off her face. I tried to slide the tape off, but it was stuck. He had wrapped it several times and I couldn’t find the end. As I searched, my head snapped sideways from a blow and I fell from the bed.
I was trapped on my back between the bed and the wall. Jack stomped on my chest and my ribs cracked. I yelped. He came at me with the phone, smashing it down with an overhead motion, like he was killing a rat.
With the naked Jack standing over me, my next move was clear. I drove my heel up and crushed Jack’s balls.
He staggered away toward the back of the room. When the pain hit him, he dropped to his knees and vomited on the carpet.
I went back to Dana, searching for the end of the tape. She had stopped moving. I found the tip of the duct tape and unwrapped. The tape was endless. He must have used five feet of the stuff. I pulled the last bit of tape off and looked for Dana to take a deep shuddering breath. She didn’t. Her mouth lay open and slack. I tapped her face, and caught motion out the corner of my eye. Jack was on his feet. I stood, blocking his exit.
I said, “She’s gone.”
Jack said, “Step aside and I’ll let you live.” He stared at me with flat, dead eyes.
I said, “Don’t you get it? You killed her!”
“Accidents happen. Get out of my way.”
The dark things I kept locked in my mind had slept after Carol’s funeral. They had stirred when Kevin died, and started howling when I saw Alice fucked on a table. They began to pound their prison door when Dmitri tied me to a tree, and they had cracked the door when I saw Nate in the trunk. Now they blew the door off the hinges. The dark ava
tars of rage escaped their cell. Their malevolence overtook me. The demons were loose, and I didn’t give a shit.
Jack ran at me. He was big and strong, but the things in me would not be denied. I stepped forward, dropped my shoulder, and drove it into his gut. He stumbled backwards, slipped on his puke, caught himself, and threw a punch at me. It hit me square on the mouth. Pain flared through my lips as they were driven into my teeth.
I spit blood on the floor, looked at Jack, and grinned a bloody grin. I punched him in the stomach and, as he doubled over, I kneed him in the face. Jack fell backwards into the puke puddle on the floor. I dropped onto Jack, driving my knee into his gut. He gasped as the breath was driven from his body. I hissed, “People trusted you. We all trusted you.”
I straddled him and started punching. I said, “Nate trusted you most of all.” The image of Nate, discarded in the trunk, drove me to greater fury.
All the dead floated into my vision: Alice, Kevin, Nate, Dana, and most of all Carol. I punched Jack in the face. His face held the hint of a smile. I punched him again. I remembered Carol. I saw her laughing on the Cape, cuddling with me in our little tent as it rained outside. I remembered our first date, and our honeymoon. I remembered making love to her and then I remembered the blood that covered the kitchen floor.
I punched and punched, but I felt weak, impotent. My punches were nothing. They didn’t smash Jack’s bones. My hand hurt from hitting his head. Jack was impassive. His calm unnerved me.
Jack lay beneath me and said, “Get off me. Because I’m leaving now. I’m going to bury you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your word against mine, right?”
“What?”
“First your wife, then Alice, then all the others, and now Dana. Tucker, you’re a monster.”
I needed a tool. I looked to my right, but saw nothing that would help. I looked to my left. Dana’s laptop was on her briefcase, next to me. I grabbed it and held it by the edge, like a hammer.
