“I think we should leave now,” she cried. “I can’t take much more of this.”
“Quiet down,” he ordered her.
“I think he saw us. We have to leave.”
“We’re fine. Just stay strong.”
Clark had stepped away from the window, and neither of them could see him anymore.
But now, the man was having his own doubts. What if Clark had noticed some movement when the sky lit up? But if so, where was he? Maybe he was calling the cops? He hadn’t reacted abnormally; he’d just calmly walked away from the window. The man, normally very decisive, was now frozen by indecision. This was a new sensation for him, and he tried to focus, so he could make a good decision. The prudent thing might have been to leave before everything went to hell, but he was damned if he was going to listen to his accomplice and succumb to her fears. He was in charge of this operation. After a few moments, the light went out in the living room, and the TV shut off.
“I think we’re okay. He might be going to bed now,” he said.
“I dunno. I didn’t see where he went,” she replied.
Her position was closer to the side of the house, so she might have had a better vantage point into the living room.
“Go to the side of the house. There is a window there, and you can see if he went upstairs.”
She didn’t like the idea; she would have preferred to stay behind the safety of the hedge, but she was also anxious to either get on with it or leave. Her preference was to leave, but she knew she would lose the argument, so she complied with his order and made a move to the window.
Clark had, in fact, seen something when he had peered out the window. The first lighting strike had drawn his attention to the yard, and the second one had illuminated what appeared to be a man. Or, at least, he thought he had seen someone. The light played tricks, but he decided to investigate, just in case. Theft was rare in this part of town, but not unheard of, and if someone was stupid enough to try to rob him—especially on a night like this—they were going to pay a painful price. In his garage was an aluminum baseball bat leftover from the days when he’d played softball. Fumbling around in the dark, he was able to locate the bat. Clark was six feet tall and a solid two-hundred pounds. Not much intimidated him, and with the bat in his hand, he felt emboldened. He swung it around a couple times to get the feel of it. It felt good. Grabbing a yellow raincoat hanging on a hook by the side door leading to the yard, he slipped it on and took a few more practice swings with the bat.
If there was someone in the yard, he was about to get a rude welcoming. Clark figured that if he went out the side door, he could sneak up on the guy and whack him with the bat before he even knew what was happening. He carefully unlocked the side door, opened it, and slipped out the door. As soon as he stepped out, he found himself face-to-face with a woman. They both froze briefly. Then, all hell broke loose.
Clark had suspected someone was in his yard, but the realization of his suspicion sent him into a rage. Screaming like a banshee, he charged after her, swinging the bat above his head. When he screamed, she screamed, and, at first, she was frozen like a deer in the headlights and couldn’t move. Then, the sight of this crazy man swinging a bat over his head broke her out of the trance. She turned and bolted away, running to the backyard—and, hopefully, right to her waiting partner-in-crime.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” Clark screamed as he charged after her. “I’m going to fuck you up!”
Even over the roaring downpour, the man thought he heard yelling coming his way. Confused, he grabbed the taser and headed toward the commotion.
The woman didn’t get five steps before Clark was on her. He swung the bat down like a tennis player hitting an overhead slam, but the patio was slippery, preventing him from connecting with a solid blow. Even a glancing blow from the big man sent her pain receptors into overdrive, and she screamed bloody murder as she went down on one knee. Clark paused, somewhat satisfied to see his prey on the ground, but he wasn’t done yet. “Mercy” was not in his vocabulary. He swung the bat over his head to deliver the knock-out blow and took a step forward to put more weight into his swing. Once again, he slipped, and this time, he fell flat on his butt, but on the way down, he finished his swing and hit her in the side. The pain nearly knocked her out as the blow broke a rib. With what little strength she had left, she scrambled back to her feet and limped away. Clark reached out to catch her, but she was soaked, and it was like trying to wrestle a greased pig. She screamed again and again, hoping that her partner would finally hear her and come to her rescue. Another smack from the bat, and she would be finished. Clark had also regained his footing and was about to give chase.
“You’d better run, you bitch!” he screamed at her.
Assuming she was alone and overmatched by his strength and size, he didn’t consider approaching her with caution. He chased her around the corner of the house into the backyard, where she seemed to be heading for cover behind the hot tub.
“That won’t protect you.” He laughed. “Cornered you like a wet rat.” He slowed down a little, satisfied that he had his prey. There was nowhere for her to go now.
Lightning struck again, lighting up the yard and highlighting the two of them. They looked like a photograph, frozen in time.
The man had moved from behind the tub and taken cover behind the shrubs that had once been the woman’s hiding place. From there, he spotted the two of them; She was in trouble and about to battered by the big man.
“Fuck!” he screamed as he pointed the taser at Clark.
There was only one gate out of the yard, and the intruder would have to go through Clark to get out. She was trapped, and he was enjoying the moment as he prepared to beat the crap out of her. She had invaded his space—probably with the intent of robbing him—and he wasn’t going to let that happen. No. He had the drop on her, and when the police arrived later, he would come up with some story about why her head was bashed in.
And then, something went wrong—starting with excruciating pain, followed by muscle cramps. He dropped to the ground like dead timber, confused and immobilized. Unable to cushion his fall, Clark’s head hit the ground and made a sickening, squishy sound.
The man stood looking down at the convulsing body, still holding the taser gun. “Damn.”
The woman had cowered down and closed her eyes, preparing to take the next blow from Clark. When nothing happened, she opened her eyes to see her partner, with a shit-eating grin, standing above Clark. Her fear of dying at the hands of Clark was replaced by anger. Forgetting the pain in her side and ignoring her fear of lightning, she reached down and picked up the fallen aluminum bat, and before the man could react, she was swinging the bat down on Clark’s face, over and over again. Blood spattered every which way, soaking her clothes and her face. She didn’t care. He tried to take the bat from her, but she glared at him and continued pounding away.
Finally, exhausted from the effort, she dropped the bloody bat next to the body. His face and head were nearly unrecognizable.
The man kicked the bat off to the side and just looked at her. He was at a loss for words.
She screamed at the dead body and kicked it once more.
“Are you done?” he asked her.
She just stared at the body.
“Are you okay?”
Finally, as if coming out of a trance, she replied, “No, I’m not fucking okay.” Blood dripped down her face. “That bastard hit me with the bat.”
He looked down at the body. “Geez, look what you’ve done to him.”
“I killed him; that’s what I’ve done, asshole. Isn’t that what we came here for? Where were you when he attacked me?”
“You were just supposed to look in the window and report back to me.”
“Fuck you! Fuck you!” she screamed and turned to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m done. I’m out of here,” she cried as she held her side where Clark had hit her with the bat.
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“You can’t leave now. We still have work to do.”
“You do it.”
“I can’t do it alone. You need to help. Please,” he pleaded. “And we need to clean you up before you leave.”
“Fine,” she said as sheets of water poured down off her head. “Let’s just finish this up and get out of here.”
Clark was a big man—and soaked, he weighed even more. They struggled to drag him into the house. Fortunately, the rain was finally letting up, and the lightning and thunder had moved off into the distance. They managed to get him into the house, a trail of blood like a river following them. Neither one of them noticed that one of the probes from the taser had caught on the brick patio.
Once inside the house, he risked turning a light on in the foyer. He got a glimpse of the damage she had done to Clark’s head. It was a gruesome sight. “I think you killed him with the bat.”
“Good. I wanted to.”
“That wasn’t in the plan.”
“So? He’s dead now. I don’t really care about the plan anymore. I want to go home now. My side hurts. I think he broke a rib.”
“Maybe he has some painkillers. Look in the kitchen. We’re almost done, anyway.” He took some duct tape out of his duffle bag and started to wrap up the body. The head was a mushy mess, and he couldn’t stand looking at it. A quick look under the sink in the kitchen produced some plastic grocery bags. He wrapped the head in a bag and taped it on. The original plan was to create a hangman’s noose out of duct tape and hang Clark off the balcony to watch him struggle and eventually choke to death. It was supposed to signify packing and moving in some way. The man was unnerved at this point. Maybe they should just leave. Pin the note to the body and go. Did it really matter at this point? In the end, he decided to improvise and go with some semblance of the original plan. He finished wrapping the body up with the duct tape, then wrapped it around Clark’s neck a few times and twisted a few pieces together to create a rope to hang him off the balcony with.
While he was wrapping his package, the woman was searching the kitchen for painkillers. She finally found some Advil and a beer in the refrigerator to wash them down. The first one went down quickly, and she grabbed another beer and rejoined her partner. She chugged the beer and watched him finish wrapping up Clark.
“Nice job,” she teased him.
“About time. I could have used your help with this,” he said, his anger showing.
She just glared at him.
“Help me drag him up the stairs,” he ordered her.
She grunted and chugged the rest of the beer, then set the bottle down. Her pain was starting to abate slightly as she took hold of one of Clark’s feet. It was hard work dragging him up the stairs, and there was a bloody trail following them. By the time they had dragged the body to the top of the stairs, they were drained and breathing heavily. She was complaining about her broken rib and whining about leaving. Although the beer and Advil had helped, it hadn’t done any good for her sour mood. She was fed up with her partner and blamed him for the snafu. Had it been up to her, they would have canceled the mission at the beginning of the evening, when the storm hit. She sat down on the balcony and refused to help him finish wrapping tape around Clark’s neck and balcony. He kept berating her, saying it would go quicker if she would just help him.
She relented and decided to help him when she saw him struggle to stand Clark up against the banister. She said the pain was too intense, but she would agree to balance Clark while the man did the heavy lifting. It took some effort, but he finally lifted Clark up and over the banister. Clark dropped like a rock until he reached the end of the tape. The railing the man had attached him to was no match for the weight or the momentum of the body. It splintered and disintegrated instantly, dropping Clark to the floor below with a thud. Dust and splinters flew every which way. Both of the Revengers stood there, looking over the edge, shocked and surprised by the turn of events. Clark didn’t move.
“Oh, shit.” He laughed nervously. He looked around at the scene they had created—blood everywhere, and railing parts strewn about. Up until now, every murder had been neat and tidy.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“I don’t know. This is just crazy. I didn’t see that coming.”
“You aren’t so fucking smart after all. Let’s go. My side really hurts.”
“Okay,” he agreed. What else could he say? Plans going awry were a new experience for him. Blood was everywhere, but he was confident they hadn’t left anything behind that could incriminate them. Their bloody clothes, gloves, and booties could all be incinerated. One last look around the room, and he was ready to go. On their way out the door, he grabbed the empty beer bottle that she had drunk from to wash down her Advil.
Chapter Nineteen
“It is your work in life that is your ultimate seduction.”
—Pablo Picasso
Jake Stein glanced at the clock. 5 AM. It had been a recurring pattern the last few nights. His wife gently snored as he pondered the Revengers case. He envied her; although she and everyone else in Denver was discussing and worrying about the case, none of them were the ones who had to solve it. The pressure from the top was mounting by the minute, and it was only a matter of time before the media and the public called for a new investigator to take over the case. He wasn’t sure what else he could do or whether another detective could do better.
How could they? The Revengers weren’t leaving any clues that could move the case forward. To have this many murders and so few clues was unheard of. If he could understand their motive, he might make some progress. Was it as simple as the notes indicated? Were they just vigilantes looking to clean the streets of Denver? He didn’t believe it.
Each murder increased the number of potential leads. That is, if the murderers were actually customers who had been ripped off. But as he and Detective Baird interviewed each past customer, no one stuck out as a likely suspect. Sure, many of them were unhappy, but they either had solid alibis or just didn’t fit the profile. And how was it that this many murders took place, and there were no witnesses to anything suspicious? Except for the two kids. But either they were lying out of fear, or they didn’t have any useful information. Sure, they confirmed it was a man and a woman, but Stein already knew that. And yet, the Revengers kept leaving a few clues, but each one seemed like a plant. The lipstick on the glass at the first murder scene, and clear footprints at more than one crime scene, confirmed there was a man and a woman involved. He had suspected that anyway, since Lane Stevens had been picked up at a bar by a woman. Everyone at the bar had seen her, and yet, no one could identify her other than saying she was a knockout. There were also prints left on the carpet, indicating that a woman with high heels had been there that night. But after that, the killers had covered their shoes with paper booties. He couldn’t even be sure of their shoe sizes, other than one was big and one was small. Stein wasn’t surprised that there were no prints at any of the scenes, either. Everyone who read books or watched TV knew to wear gloves these days. The killers must have been wearing hair nets or hats, as well, as the examiners had yet to find any viable hair. Except for the first murder. The hairs left behind in the car and on Lane’s clothing were confirmed to be from a cheap, department-store wig.
What was he missing?
Or could it be that there was nothing to miss, because the killers were that good?
He looked at the clock again. The minute hand had barely moved since he’d last looked. There was no way he was going back to sleep at this point. Why even bother trying? Sex crossed his mind, but when he saw his wife sleeping soundly, he decided against that. They had been married for ten years now, and their love for each other had never waned. But the rigors of his job and raising two kids had definitely curtailed their spontaneity. It was hard to get intimate in the middle of a serial killer investigation—especially one with so many gruesome murders. Of course, he thought to himself, if this case goes on much lo
nger…
Before he could finish the thought, his cell phone started to ring.
Kate woke and watched Stein grab the phone while slipping out of bed. She saw the clock and groaned. She knew it was bad news.
He answered as he left the room.
“Morning, Captain.” He listened for a few minutes. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” He returned to the bedroom and started to get dressed.
“Another murder?” Kate asked.
“No. The captain wants to see me in his office, now.”
“Everything okay?”
“I don’t know. He really didn’t say much, but he was adamant that we meet ASAP.”
“I’ll get you some coffee and something to eat.”
Ten minutes later, Stein was ready. Rachel was waiting in the kitchen for him with a travel mug of coffee and a bagel with a little schmear of cream cheese on it. He took a bite out of the bagel and set it down. “Not really hungry, but thanks,” he said as he took the travel mug and headed out the door. A moment later, he returned to give her a kiss. “I’ll call you later, when I can. Love you,” he said.
She could see the sadness in his eyes. This case was killing him, but he would never say it out loud.
The ride to the station was short but stressful. The captain was typically a no-nonsense guy, but not an early-morning guy. So, for him to call this early to set up a meeting was disturbing. The captain also didn’t like surprises—giving them or receiving them. Not divulging the nature of the early meeting or why it was so urgent had Stein guessing. All the different possibilities ran through his head, from being taken off the case—which would feel like a demotion—to the unlikely scenario that the chief or captain were resigning over the case. The worst would be if he was taken off the case. It had never happened to Stein in his entire career. But there was a first time for everything. He tried to assure himself that no one else would have handled the case differently, so no one else could have produced results any faster. He was running the case by the book, so to speak, so he couldn’t think of a thing he had done wrong. Thinking back to when the chief had asked him to take the case, and he’d accepted, he realized that was probably the biggest mistake. He should have taken time off, like he always did between cases. Water under the bridge now, though. Could these killers be so good as to derail careers? Stranger things had happened.
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