by Barry Lyga
Her whole face was familiar.
“Oh my God,” Connie breathed, forgetting Billy’s imminent return for a moment. “You’re Jazz’s mother!”
The woman on the bed blinked at her. “Who’s Jazz?” she asked.
“Your son. Jasper. We call him Jazz.”
Jazz’s mother stared at her for a long, long moment. Then a tear spilled from her eye and rolled down her cheek. “You know Jasper?” she asked in a whisper laden with disbelief. She strained to the utmost limit of her chain, lunging at Connie with a ferocity Connie had never before witnessed. It was every maternal instinct, hurtling itself toward freedom for her child. Connie thought she’d never seen something so pitiable, so powerful. “You know him? Is he okay?” Her voice gathered strength, urgency. “Where is he? Does he know I’m alive? Is he—”
Connie had to wave her free hand to stop the barrage, give herself time to think. She was in the same room as Jazz’s mother. The mother they had just buried in absentia before coming to New York. She was alive and she was healthy and…
And she was shackled in Billy Dent’s Apartment of Doom.
“Jazz’s fine,” Connie said. “He’s here in New York, with the police, actually.”
“The police?” She went rigid with fear. “Did he do something?”
“It’s a really, really long story, Mrs. Dent.” Connie winced as she said it but couldn’t keep the name from spilling out.
The other woman smiled sadly. “Given the circumstances, I think it’s okay for you to call me Jan. How did you get here?”
“I got a phone call. A few, really. Followed some clues.”
“And they led you to Billy.”
At that name, Connie froze. She had almost allowed herself to forget, despite being still tied to the chair. But Billy would be back. That much was certain.
“Yeah,” she said, trying to fight off the images her imagination insisted on feeding her. Billy would cut off more than a braid next time, she was certain. “But he said he wasn’t the one who talked to me on the phone.”
“And you believed him?”
Connie sighed. “I don’t know what I believe anymore. I came here… Look, in hindsight I realize it was sort of impulsive and stupid. But you have to understand—he sent me a picture of Jazz. Recent. And close. He could get to Jazz so easily, and if I didn’t do what he said, he would hurt him. If I went to the police, he would hurt him. I didn’t have a choice. I had to come here. And honestly, I really thought I was just gathering clues. Getting info for the police. And, yeah, that was stupid, but I didn’t think I would actually run into Billy Dent.” She shook her head. “Things that look stupid on the outside… They might actually be stupid, but they don’t seem like it when you think you’re protecting someone you love.”
Connie gnawed at her lip. She hadn’t meant to let that last bit slip out. She knew Billy and Gramma were both racists. She had to at least consider the possibility.…
“You weren’t stupid, Connie. You thought you were helping.”
“I guess after we caught the Impressionist, I thought it would be okay. I figured we knew what we were doing—I knew what I was doing—and it wouldn’t do any harm. But instead, I ended up here.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Jan said quietly. “I was married to Billy. I knew him like no one else, and he still managed to catch up to me, all these years later.”
They thought about that for a moment.
There was so much to ask. So much to tell. But Connie didn’t have the time. They didn’t have the time. What would this do to Jazz? What would it mean for the us they’d become? How could she—
And she was drifting off again, thinking again, when what she needed right now was action.
“We don’t have time for this,” Connie said, her voice pitched low and steady. “He could be back soon.”
“Come back over here,” Jan told her, “and I’ll try to get that other knot untied.”
It had taken too long for Jan to untie the first one in the dark. Connie began to thump her way over. She fell a few times but eventually made it there. Crossing the six feet to Jan’s bedside was like running hurdles. But every time the room fell silent, she thought she heard a door open somewhere, and that just spurred her on even more, until she was at the bed; by the time she got there, she was winded and sweating.
Jan started working at the knot. “It’s a little tighter than the last one,” she said apologetically.
“Take your time.”
They both laughed—short, frightened laughter. Time was the one thing they didn’t have.
“Maybe don’t take your time.”
“Going as fast as I can. You said ‘we’ call him Jazz,” Jan said as she worked. “Who’s we?”
Connie found herself welcoming the distraction. Better to talk than to think right now. “Mostly Howie and me. Howie’s his best friend.”
“There was a boy named Howie Gersten in the Nod. I remember him. He was sick. Anemia or something.”
“That’s him. And it’s hemophilia.”
“That’s right.” Jan sighed. “Jasper has a friend. That’s good.”
“And, uh, a girlfriend.”
“Of course.” Jan smiled. “That’s good. That’s normal, right? I was always so worried that he would, well…” She sniffed back tears and nodded. “Good. I’m glad, Connie. Good for you. And him.”
Connie grinned, despite her situation. A moment later, she yelped in pain.
“I’m sorry!” Jan rushed to say. “So sorry! That was my nail. I was digging under the rope and jabbed you.”
“Is it bad? It feels bad.” And it did. It felt worse than just a little jab. “Is it bleeding?”
“Just a little. It’s all right. Not so bad. Not, uh, like…” Jan’s eyes flicked upward.
Oh, right. In all the confusion since she’d been dragged into the room, Connie had forgotten about the cut along her neck. She probed it gently with her free hand. The blood was still oozing, but it had thickened, gone slightly tacky. She figured it was clotting and left it alone, no matter how badly she wanted to pick and prod at it.
“Okay, no worries. Just get me out of this and I’ll get you out of there and then…”
“One step at a time, Connie.” Jan grunted as she tugged at the rope.
One step at a time. I bet that’s what Billy thinks when he’s dismembering—
Bad idea to go down that route. She distracted herself again: Connie told Jan about the box she’d unearthed in Billy Dent’s backyard, the bell engraved in it, the Auto-Tuned voice that might or might not have been Billy that used a combination of goading and threat to bring her back to New York. The trip to the luggage pickup, where she’d received the toy gun and the picture of Eliot Ness that had brought her here.
“The whole thing,” she summed up, “seems crazy.”
They exchanged a knowing look. Jan smiled wryly. “Do you think?”
“I just mean…” She remembered her drive to the airport with Howie. Sammy J. Jazz’s aunt. They had wondered if maybe Billy’s sister possessed his same madness.
“Do you know Billy’s sister?”
“Samantha? Not well; she wasn’t around a lot.”
“Did they keep in touch?”
“Maybe. Turns out there’s a lot that was going on when I was with Billy that—ah! There!”
The knot finally pulled apart. Connie’s hand tingled with the sudden rush of blood and sensation. She flexed the fingers, wincing at the pain but also glad for it. Pain meant life.
Yeah, keep thinking like that, Connie. I bet Billy loves that kind of crap.
She bent and found that she could just barely reach the rope around her ankle.
“There’s something else,” Connie said, working on her left leg’s knot while Jan worked on the right. “Something we need to talk about.”
“What’s that?”
“I found things in the lockbox. Pictures of Jazz when he was a baby. A toy crow.”
<
br /> “So?” Still working on the rope.
“Jazz’s birth certificate.”
Jan stopped tugging at the loops of rope but stayed bent over, not looking up. She said nothing.
“Jan.”
Still nothing.
“Jan, the space for father was—”
“I’m not ready to talk about that yet.”
“But it could mean—”
“I said,” she snarled, pulling savagely at the rope, “that I’m not ready to talk about that yet!”
Connie counted to five in her head. Was this really the time or the place to have this conversation? Probably not. But they weren’t leaving anytime soon. “I just think it’s important,” she said. “If Jazz isn’t—”
“Stop calling him that!” Jan snapped. “ ‘Jazz.’ It’s ridiculous. It’s a girl’s nickname. His name is Jasper.”
“All due respect, you don’t know a whole lot about him these days.”
Jan stopped her ministrations at Connie’s ankle and pulled back, withdrawing bodily onto the bed. Connie felt terrible. Who knew how long this poor woman had been Billy’s captive? And before that, what had she seen and endured during their marriage? Hell, what had it been like for her at first, on the run, terrified that Billy could be around every corner, waiting in every car, loitering in every elevator?
And then Connie reminded herself that Jan had left an eight-year-old boy alone in the house with Billy Dent, and her sympathy dried up.
“I guess I deserved that,” Jan said.
“You left him,” Connie retorted, more coldly than she’d thought herself capable.
“You don’t know what it was like. You can’t understand.”
“I understand you were his mother.”
Jan nodded. Connie liberated her left ankle and got to work on the right.
“Are you good for him, Connie?”
“For Jazz?” She thought of their hotel room here in New York. Of the night Jazz had woken up from a dream and clutched at her, only to fall off the bed and then snap at her. She thought of her yearning for him, of what they’d endured together.
“I think I’m really good for him.”
“I bet you are.”
The last loop of rope gave, and Connie prized it loose. She rubbed some feeling back into her feet, then chanced standing. The world went wobbly for a moment, but she controlled her breathing until the sensation subsided.
Jan gazed at her from the bed.
“Now,” Connie said, grimacing as she stared at the handcuff, “we work on you.”
CHAPTER 8
Howie tried his best, most dashing smile on G. William, but the sheriff was having none of it. He planted himself with a solid thud on a chair next to Howie’s bed and glared intimidatingly enough that Howie forgot the joke he was about to crack.
“It’s one thing for Jasper to go gallivanting all over God’s creation like some kind of idiot, but it’s gonna get you killed one of these days, Howie.”
“Probably when my parents get here.”
G. William snorted an unamused blast of air from that misshapen nose of his. “You think your parents are what you have to worry about? Your biggest concern is sitting right in front of you.”
“What do you mean? I didn’t do anything!”
“You have a funny definition of ‘didn’t do anything.’ Since I saw you last, you went to see a person who you claimed could be a serial killer. You got a senior citizen in the hospital. And, oh, yeah, you warned Connie that I was onto her. That’s right, Howie—I dumped your phone records, including your texts, right after you left my office. Was ‘go ghosty’ supposed to be some kind of clever code that a dumb hick like me couldn’t break?”
Ah, man. G. William was onto them. “Pretty sure you violated my right to privacy or something by doing that,” he said, but his heart wasn’t in it.
“Don’t act as stupid as you look, Howie. It doesn’t suit you.” G. William leaned in close. “And now—because of you—Connie’s gone missing. We can’t find her. She took your advice and vanished.”
Howie grunted and turned away from G. William. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Where did she go, Howie? This isn’t a game. She could be in a lot of trouble. If she gets hurt, it’s on your head.”
Great. Just what I need. Already have Gramma on my conscience, so now we have to add Connie, too?
“I don’t know anything,” he said quietly, pretending to be captivated by the drip-drop of the IV fluids in his line. “I don’t know where she went, other than to New York.”
“Look me in the eye, Howie.”
Reluctantly, Howie returned his attention to the sheriff. “I really don’t know, G. William. All I know is that the guy on the phone told her to go to terminal four at JFK. We don’t know why.”
G. William nodded thoughtfully for a moment, then fiddled with his smartphone, texting. “That’s a bit more than we had before. I’ll let the NYPD and JFK security folks know.”
“What’s the deal with Gramma?” Howie asked. “And Sam. Where’s she?”
“Jazz’s grandmother is in the ICU. She’s in rough shape, Howie. I’m not gonna lie to you. She had a scare, and with a heart as weak as hers, that’s bad, but the blow to the head…” He shrugged. “They’re doing their best. They think she’ll pull through, but when you’re that old and frail, even the best doctor’s opinion is just a guess.”
“What about Sam?” Howie asked quietly, absorbing the news about Gramma.
“The one you think is Billy Dent’s partner? The woman none of us knows a damn thing about? That one?”
“Get out. Now.”
The new voice was familiar—too familiar. Howie groaned at the sound of his mother, brittle and strong at the same time.
“Mrs. Gersten,” G. William said politely, rising from the chair and tipping his hat. “Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances again.”
“I said, ‘Get out,’ Sheriff. Howie is a minor.”
“You can’t question him without us present,” Dad said. “And we’re not consenting.”
“Your son is a material witness to a—”
“Get out!” Mom shrieked at the top of her lungs, and Howie winced.
“Mom, be cool.”
“I will not ‘be cool.’ And if you ever go near that Dent boy again, I will—”
“I’m almost eighteen. You can’t—”
“We’re not talking about this in front of the sheriff,” Dad interrupted, then turned to G. William. “If you have more questions, you can wait until I get a lawyer in here.”
G. William shuffled to the door, stepping aside to let Howie’s parents move past him to the bed. “I guess I have enough for now. Thanks for your help, Howie.”
Just outside the door, he paused, holding it open long enough to peer back into the room. “By the way, Howie—that person you were asking about?”
Howie nodded.
“Well, she’s gone,” G. William said. “Wasn’t at the house when the EMTs got there. She just up and vanished.”
A chill ran down Howie’s spine as the door slowly swung shut and he was left alone with his parents.
CHAPTER 9
Duncan Hershey did not anticipate taking any pleasure in killing his wife and children. It was just something he would have to do. Now that he had won the game and ascended past the pathetic Dog to the ranks of the Crows, the Hat Killer was ready to take his next step.
There would be a new name. A new town. Fresh new women to take, to possess, to reduce to nothing.
But first he had to erase his old life. That was the plan. His wife and children had, for a time, served their purpose. They had made him appear human and, therefore, less suspicious. But now they dragged at him, like a parachute caught in the wind. They held him back.
The sooner done, the better. While he longed to take his time and give each of them the personal touch, he knew that a horribly murdered wife and children would only cast
suspicion on the missing, surviving father. It was always the way. The world always blamed men, when it was truly the women who were at fault. The women, who held themselves back and above. The women, who tempted and taunted.
So Hershey planned a meticulous tragedy involving the apartment’s gas stove. It was possible that people in the apartment below might meet their end as well—he was unsure exactly how big the explosion would be—but the collateral damage would make the “accident” more believable.
And how sad for the father, who happened to be out at the moment of the explosion. Oh, the media would fete him for his stoicism afterward. And when he chose to leave town, to disappear, well… Who could blame him? Poor man. To lose his whole family like that… I would leave town, too.
Hershey would vanish. Then reappear where least expected, like the best of magicians.
And then the killing. The sweet, sweet killing!
The plan was perfect. Hershey’s new life as a Crow would be perfect. Only one thing stood in his way.
Billy Dent.
Hershey sat at his kitchen table, staring at the knobs on the stove, the unturned knobs. His plan had been devised months ago and took little to put into action. But he’d been told not to. He’d been told to do nothing, to kill no one.
By Billy Dent.
It was past midnight. Down the hall, his wife slept. His children slept. Sleep and death were cousins, after a fashion, and it galled the Hat Killer that his family cozied up to one and not the other this night. Who was Billy Dent to tell him not to kill? Billy Dent had come late to the game, which had begun the previous summer, run by Ugly J. The Hat Killer had not liked Ugly J, of course. Ugly J was too lax. And there was a lilting, laughing tone to Ugly J’s voice that Hershey despised. It made him want to reach through the telephone and pull Ugly J to him and begin sloughing off flesh with a sharp knife, whittling down through the muscle, all the way down to the bone, his work’s soundtrack the sweet and innocent screams of someone being tortured. Such music.
