Samson took the folder to his desk. Picked up the phone. Needed to find out if the victim had been identified yet through his fingerprints.
“They already got it,” Dod said, swiveling in his chair to the portable TV sitting on a sideboard against the wall.
Samson put down the phone again. He looked up to see the mid-day newsman on Channel 2 speaking from the scene in Kemah. It was a video tape taken earlier when the body was found. “Turn it up.”
Dod rolled across the room in his chair and turned up the volume.
Mitchell watched the news spot while his stomach started to roil. The heat was on, the media was all over it. When that happened, it was always a real mess. The boss was right. The second he formed a task force, reporters would crawl over him, ants on a carcass, breathing down his neck, asking for updates, trying to follow him around, and getting in the way.
“Fuck,” he swore softly. Picked up the phone again and made his call.
~*~
That night, with the moon in full regalia and the stars more plentiful than other nights of recent recall, Son slipped out Sherilee's door and down the steps to the street. If he turned he knew he'd see her standing, watching him go, and she would give him a little wave goodbye.
Most of the time that kind of domestic scene would have warmed him. Tonight it just made him more nervous. These connections with people dragged him down. Sherilee. His mother. Women, fucking women. Even though you paid them for something, they started thinking they owned you.
He stopped at his car door, key in his hand. He didn't like women. Funny how he could miss a thing like that for so many years. Oh, he knew he would never marry one. He'd never have a regular honest relationship. But he'd never thought about it beyond that. Until now, with Sherilee standing on the porch in the moonlight watching him go, and that uneasiness creeping up from his back to his neck making him feel spied upon.
He didn't like women at all. He used Sherilee for sex, he needed that, but look at her. She was black. She was old—at least for her line of work. She was without any principles whatsoever. She'd do anything for money, anything he asked of her, do anything with anybody anytime.
Fucking whore dog.
And he didn't like his mother, either. He loved her, had to, he was her son, but he didn't like her. She was too rich in spirit, too accepting of what life handed her, too . . . good for him, oh, wasn't she now, too good . . .
He unlocked the car door and slid inside. Hot. Suffocating. Humidity, even at this time of night, in the nineties. He started the car and got the air conditioning going. Angled the vents on his face and shut his eyes. He hoped Sherilee had gone inside now. He'd hate to think she was still looking after him.
A lake of moonlight lay over the interior of the car, almost blinding in its brilliance. Son put the car into gear and screeched the tires as he left the curb.
He couldn't go home yet. Too bent out of shape. Pretzelized. That was a good word for how he felt.
Bent into figure eights, baked hard and lightly salted.
He drove slowly down the inner city streets. A patrol car passed him. A cab. Two cars empty except for lone drivers. Both men. Women didn't drive through Houston late at night, alone. Wasn't done except during an emergency of some sort. There were too many “bump and robs” where guys bumped into the rear of a woman driver, waited until she got out to check for damage, then took her car or took her and the car. Too many drive-by shootings. Too many dope dealers high on their own products crazy enough to jerk a woman out of the driver's seat at a stoplight and beat her face in just for kicks.
Too many of everything!
Son pounded at the dash. Damned air conditioning didn't blow cool enough. Needed to get it fixed. You couldn't buy your own cans of freon to fill up a leaking compressor anymore. EPA had outlawed the stuff because of the damaged ozone layer. Now you had to go in to a repair shop and pay hundreds of dollars to get the fucker fixed. What would they think of next to persecute honest, hard-working citizens?
An entrance ramp came up for the Loop. Son took it, driving aimlessly. He circled around the city until he came to the I-45 South exit, took it. Maybe it would be cooler down by the ocean.
He wanted to get a look at the channel anyway, the one that separated Kemah and Seabrook, the one where they brought in the bodies.
None of the restaurants were open this late. He parked on a spit of land outside the little town of Seabrook where the channel flowed on the right and ahead lay the bay. He got out of the car and walked over to the bulkhead. A dozing gull flew off with a squawk.
The wind was blowing here, smelling briny. It ruffled his hair back from his forehead and caressed his cheeks. He saw a freighter out in the bay, its lights outlining the ship's body. A moon path stretched wide from the horizon to the bulkhead, like a silver highway.
Four dead men had walked it lately. From somewhere out there, where they slipped beneath the waves, they rolled and tumbled and were nudged by currents and fish back toward land.
It would soon be morning and the moon hidden.
Son turned abruptly and hurried to the car. He had to get home, he'd forgotten. His mother shouldn't be alone, not all night this way. What if she needed to go to the bathroom? What if she tried it by herself and fell? Or stayed in bed and wet herself? What if her heart gave out and she'd called for him?
Jesus God, all he thought about was himself Having sex, finding a cool breeze, driving all the fuck the way down I-45 to SeaForsakenBrook just to look at the water.
He had to get home. Now.
~*~
“Mother? Mother?” He came into the house calling her name. He got her bedroom door open, panicking, still calling for her, “Mother?”
“Son! What is it?”
She turned on the bedside lamp and the room exploded into light. She was up on one elbow, squinting at him, frowning at him.
He was shaking all over, trembling so badly his teeth chattered uncontrollably. All the way home across the city he had let his imagination run wild until he was sure, sure she had died while he'd been gone.
“Oh, Mother, I'm sorry. I . . . I didn't mean to wake you . . . I was . . .”
“Son, what's the matter? You're shaking. Sit down right this minute. You look awful.”
She tried to rise from bed. Her color was bad. She looked yellow in the lamplight. Her eyes were watery and there were blue hollows underneath them. He put out his hands, “Don't move, just stay there. I'm all right. I'll sit down.” He collapsed in the chair and put his hands over his face.
“Son? Honey, what's wrong?”
“I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I was out, we played cards too late, and I didn't notice the time. I got scared, that's all. It was silly.”
“Sweetheart. You were worried about me. You needn't do that. I sleep all night, you know that. I never call for you on your card nights. You always make sure I have everything I need.”
I'm a good son, he thought. I really am.
“Do you want me to sit up with you a while? Would you like to talk?”
He lowered his hands from his face. “We need to get you to that appointment,” he said. “We've put it off too long already.”
“I'm going to be fine.” She adjusted the covers over her chest.
“You haven't been doing so well lately. You need a checkup. They should see about your medications, maybe they aren't strong enough.”
“You can't fix this old heart, Son. No one can. Worrying about things you can't change will only waste your time.”
“You don't want to die, do you?” He hadn't meant to raise his voice. He was out of control and hated that, hated it.
“Please don't shout, Son. I'll go to the doctor if that's what you want. Just don't get worked up so.”
“I'm sorry. I told you I was scared. I'll call for an appointment tomorrow, or rather today, after I get a nap.” He stood shakily. “I'll let you rest now. I really didn't mean to disturb you.”
“Get some sleep, darling. Tomorrow th
ings will look brighter, mark my words.” She reached and turned out the lamp.
Son shut the door quietly. He moved through the dark hall to his own room, her scent in his nostrils. Baby powder, cotton gowns ironed and crisp, old paperskin, old denture-breath.
His mother was dying. This time she was going to die.
But what would he do without her, what would he do if he didn't have her to care for?
What would he do if he was left alone, all alone, in the world?
Twenty-Five
Shadow knew she was taking him home with her.
“I'd like to see where you live. Not many people know, do they?” Samson looked around the club as if someone might have overheard him.
“I don't talk about my personal life at work. Most of us lie, anyway, to the customers.”
“I've always wondered about that. It makes you work at being fraudulent, doesn't it? I don't mean to imply there's anything wrong with lying to customers about where you live or your name. Hell, it would be a big mistake to let most of these guys know any details. But it just seems lying all the time could make you . . . well, forget what the truth is.”
Shadow thought it over. She didn't like the word “fraudulent” applied to her and that must have shown on her face. “Everyone's a fraud anyway, what's the big deal?”
“I said I didn't mean it was so bad.” He sipped at the Irish coffee. “Like you say, everyone's a fraud when you come right down to it. For instance, I'm a cop so I'm supposed to be brave, upright, and civic-minded.”
“It sounds like the Boy Scout oath. But I suppose you're right. Tell lies long enough and the truth fades out.” She paused. “Which one of those things are wrong? You're not brave? Upright? Civic-minded?”
“Rarely any of the above,” he said, smiling that smile she liked so much. “Will you tell me your real name then?”
She hesitated. “Kay. But I'm not the same person I was when that was my name. Shadow suits me better now.”
“Kay.” He stared into his coffee, mulling over the sound of it. “Katherine?” She nodded slightly. “Kay what?”
“Mandel. My married name. Mandel.” He was the first person in over a year, outside of Charlene, who knew her real name. Why was there such power in a person's name? Under the name of Shadow she was free to be anyone and act in any way she pleased. As Kay Mandel she was held responsible for her actions. That was the magic of a nickname.
“Why don't you call me Mitch?”
She nodded her head. “Well, Mitch, how would you like to take a ride with me?”
“Now? Where to?”
“To where I live.”
He looked startled. She smiled, enjoying surprising him. “It's a long drive. We can go in my car.”
“Why don't I follow you in mine instead?”
She hadn't done that before. Because she meant to kill them. But she knew she didn't mean to kill the cop. In the first place he didn't fit into the type of man who needed to be destroyed, wiped from the face of the earth. He fell in the category of Wipee. He did the same thing she did, which was to clean the streets of its scum layer. They had this in common. In the second place—What the hell was she doing, did she even know?
Her heart rate went into warp speed. She knew what she was doing. She wanted him. In bed. As a lover. She must have known that the first time she saw him, but she couldn't admit it then. Now since she had met with him and talked a lot, she knew it was inevitable. She actually did have hormones. She really was still a normal woman with some kind of sex drive left. It was astounding, but true.
“Okay,” she said. “I'm ready to leave now. How about you?”
He stood and came to her chair, pulling it back as she rose. The way gentlemen used to do for ladies. The way Scott used to . . .
She broke off from that thought and turned to Mitch. “I have to change and get my things. I'll be in the parking lot in a minute if you want to wait there.”
She felt his eyes tracking her as she moved to the dressing rooms. For the first time in ages she felt embarrassed at how little she had on. The lace jacket covered nothing. The G-string covered less. What had possessed her to get into this business?
Oh yes. Survival. Vastly overrated as it was.
She walked as unselfconsciously as possible through the curtains to the back. Taking home a cop. Seducing a policeman.
She must be out of her mind.
~*~
They lay separated by inches, breathing heavily, sweat drying on their bodies. The air conditioning vent over the bed blew cold air and chilled her flesh, but she did not move to cover herself.
“I might be down this way more often,” he said. “I'm taking over a case. You hear about the bodies washing in?”
Her breath caught. “Oh . . . yeah, I did.”
Funny how a man's mind went straight back to business the moment after intercourse. It had been difficult for Shadow. They had made love in her bed, the same bed where men had died. Men had bled. She could even feel the plastic sheeting deep under a layer of two blankets, the sheets, and bedspread they lay atop. She wondered if he noticed. He might think she was incontinent. She almost laughed aloud.
Then she thought about him heading the case of the poisoned men. It sobered her. Her sweat dried in the chilly air and she shivered. This meant he was now her greatest enemy. Lover. Enemy. Which was he?
He turned to her, wrapping her in his arms. Her face fit into the crook of his neck. She loved his scent. She could drink it in all night. He was her lover. He could never be an enemy to her. She would never let him find out what she had done. And meant to do. Never.
“If I'm down here more often, that means I might be able to see you here, rather than at the club.”
“Ummm.” She snuggled deeper into the crevice of his body. Her breasts pressed flat against his chest. She looped one leg over his hip. “It's been a long time since . . .”
“I thought so,” he said and said no more.
She didn't want to explain. He spoke again finally, telling one of those truths they had kept from one another. “For me too.” She believed him.
“I was engaged a few months ago. It didn't work out,” he said. “She was class. I was a gutter-crawler. She wanted invitations to the wedding printed in gold. I wanted to hand out my business card to friends.”
Though he was trying to make light of it, Shadow understood some of the things he was leaving out. She knew what it meant to be on the outside, out on the edge, not flowing in the mainstream of society. Unless you had been there, you couldn't know how different it was, how alien the rest of the world appeared, how awful those others sometimes treated you.
“Did you love her?”
“I thought I did. But I guess I didn't.”
More truth. She was glad he had not truly loved the other woman. She realized she was jealous of her without knowing anymore than that he had asked her to marry him.
She let her hand rove up and down his back, feeling his muscles there, powerful, strong, the little bumps of his spine, the swell of his buttocks. He was cool to her touch. Dry now, his skin like the marble floors of the mansion, hard and flat.
She felt him growing, excited again. As long as he thought of her and kept his mind away from the murders, she was safe. Safe in his arms, safe to let herself go. He moved a bit and she knew what he wanted to find. If he had to get up to get another condom, she would feel too naked and abandoned.
“Wait,” she whispered. “Wait.” She leaned back in his arms a little, reaching behind her to feel blindly along the bedside table in the dark. Her fingers danced over a little square package. She drew it closer and palmed it. She snuggled again, tearing it open with her teeth. She looked into his shadowed face. Thought he smiled.
“I thought you might want me to leave,” he said softly next to her ear. He nibbled at her earlobe and a delicious thrill went down her body. Her nipples hardened against his chest.
“Not yet,” she said. “Oh no, not yet . . .”
/>
As he fiddled with the condom, getting it on, she turned in his arms, her back to him so they were together like spoons. He slipped into her from behind, his hands seeking and finding her breasts. She bent her head until her eyes were hidden in the bend of his arm. She lifted one leg again, draping it over his hip. She opened to him and let his measured thrusts wash her toward orgasm.
~*~
The fourth floater was identified as Ossie Cherkovania, an escapee from Huntsville Correctional Unit where he had been incarcerated for four years and three months on a guilty charge of murder in the second degree. He had been on the loose for six months. He had a sheet going back to his teens, everything from hotwiring and stealing cars, to assault with a deadly weapon.
Samson sat at his desk chewing the eraser on a pencil. He pulled a yellow notepad over and wrote:
Victims frequented nightclubs in Montrose area.
Victims all have records.
Dod interrupted his thoughts. “ID the guy?”
“Yeah. Escaped TDC six months ago.”
“Good riddance, then. Saved the taxpayers money putting him up.”
Samson moved his gaze from the notepad to Dod. He stared at him, thinking about what he'd said. “What is it? My breath stink?”
“It might. That's not what I was thinking. What you said. About good riddance this guy got offed.”
“Yeah?”
“The others were known perps too. Some on parole.”
“Somebody's cleaning up the city.”
Samson pointed the pencil at Dod. Then he bent to the notepad and added:
3) Killer is vigilante?
“We got us a Charles Fucking Bronson,” Dod said. “But why poison? And how'd he get them to drink the stuff?”
“How do you know they drank it?”
“I can read autopsy reports too. I have a genuine high school diploma.” He grinned to soften the fact he had been snooping in Samson's files.
Samson shrugged. He didn't really care just as long as Dod didn't get in his way. The news stories said the men were poisoned. It never said how. You could just as well overdose someone with a needle full of something as get them to drink it. In the case of Warfarin, getting someone to drink it had to be a really iffy proposition. How did the killer get them to do it?
SUSPENSE THRILLERS-A Boxed Set Page 47
