SUSPENSE THRILLERS-A Boxed Set

by Billie Sue Mosiman

  “Sure. Have a seat, I'll go find something.” In the kitchen he pulled out another bottle of the California wine, poured half a glass into a water tumbler. He found the rat poison in the pantry and put an even teaspoon of it into the glass, then stirred the concoction vigorously. He sniffed the wine. Didn't smell too bad. There wasn't enough poison in it to kill Cato, but it would certainly serve to debilitate him so that Son could pour some stronger stuff down him later.

  “Here,” he said, offering the glass to his guest. “I'm sorry it's not chilled.”

  “Burgundy? You don't have any white wine, do you?”

  “No, sorry.” White wine. Of course. How stereotypical.

  “You're not drinking?”

  “I don't drink. Go ahead without me. When you're done, I'll show you my office.”

  “Great!” Cato lifted the glass to his lips, tipped forward the blood-red liquid, took a big, lusty swallow. He grimaced, rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “What's the matter? The liquor store told me this was the best wine they had from California vineyards.”

  “Well, hey, you won't catch me disputing a liquor clerk.” He smiled at the weak joke.

  Son shrugged. “I don't know a thing about wines.”

  Cato tried another swallow, obviously out of courtesy. He then set the glass on the coffee table. “You know, maybe the clerk was pulling your leg. I'm afraid what we have here is some bad-tasting fermentation. No offense, of course.”

  “None taken. C'mon, my office is down this way.”

  Cato made appreciative sounds while looking at Son's computer, the stack of typed pages neatly piled to the right of the machine, the walls of books, the odd looking little bust of Edgar Allan Poe. “Nice,” he said. “It must be wonderful to work at home and not have to put up with a boss.”

  “Listen, my mother's usually awake most of the night. How would you like to meet her?”

  “Your mother! You live here with your mother? Jesus, she could have walked in on us.”

  “No chance. She's an invalid. I should have told you she was here, I guess. I just take it for granted and didn't think about it. She's a swell old lady, you'll like her.” Son moved from the office into the hallway. Behind him, Cato followed, protesting.

  “I really think we ought not disturb her. I should be getting back to the club, you know, find my friends, be getting home . . .”

  “This won't take long. Mother would never forgive me if I didn't introduce my company.”

  Son didn't know quite what he was doing taking the stranger down the hall to the closed bedroom door. He wanted him to be shocked, yes, he wanted to note his reaction to a dead woman lying on a bed. The man would never have the chance to report it, but was it wise? It meant more things could go wrong.

  Son acknowledged he was taking all kinds of new risks he had never chanced before. A pinnacle of excitement, though, climbed so high inside him he thought he might burst out into song. This was better than any kind of sex, any day.

  He opened the door, crossed to his mother's night table, and did not hesitate to flip on the lamp switch. The body emerged into view, bathed in a soft pink glow. She looked so peaceful. Even naked, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. If it wasn't for the smell emanating from her decaying flesh, she might be an aged goddess, an elderly Sleeping Beauty awaiting the kiss from her prince while reclining against the hand-crocheted pillows.

  He turned to watch Cato's face. “Cato, meet my mother. Mother, this is Cato, a little friend of mine.”

  “Oh good Christ.” The man was frozen in place, a rictus of horror holding his features in thrall.

  “I'll tell you something else about me, Cato. A secret even Mother didn't know. I love to copy, to mimic, duplicate, reproduce, imitate. I've been doing it for years. Maybe since I was a kid. I copy books, movie scenes and plots.

  “For instance, this scene you now witness is very similar to the one in the movie Psycho, don't you think? Did you ever see Psycho? You said you were a movie buff. That famous movie came from a Robert Bloch book, you know, not from the scriptwriter and not from the mind of Alfred Hitchcock. The best movies come from books, from authors.

  “Remember Norman Bates in the movie? Anthony Perkins? How he had his mother stuffed and sitting in the rocking chair in the cellar? Don't you think I've done a good job with the materials I had to work with? I don't have a cellar, you understand.

  “But I do have a dead mother, the poor old dear.”

  During Son's recital, Cato went from frozen terror to sudden frenzied action. He swiveled, knocking a doily from the back of the easy chair, bumped into the door facing, staggered into the hall, gained control of his feet and, like a sprinter in a race, hunkered down to dash for the side door leading outside, to where Son had parked the car.

  Son took his time in pursuit. No hurry. The door was locked. By the time Cato discovered how to unlock it, he would be restrained.

  Son walked right up to him, wrapped an arm around his neck, hauled him off his feet, and dragged him, his scream a mangled gurgle, to the living room. He threw him onto the sofa, onto his back. He climbed on top, to straddle him with his knees, effectively pinning him to the cushions.

  There he proceeded to choke him unconscious while murmuring into his horrified face, “There . . . there . . . shhhh . . . hush now . . . there . . . isn't that better?”

  Thirty-Five

  It was a feeding frenzy. Mitchell Samson presided over a room where eight detectives sat talking nonstop. Outside the door marked “private” waited a gang from the press corps, including three reporters from the local television stations with all their gear and cameramen. Samson hoped the lieutenant was giving them the promised statement right now, otherwise they'd still be out there waiting to descend on him and his men once the meeting was over.

  Finding nothing else at hand to use for rapping the table, Samson balled his fist and hit the scarred wood with his knuckles. “Quiet down,” he said. “Quiet.”

  The room fell into uneasy silence. They shuffled their butts, most of them broadened from sitting in chairs at desks for too many hours a day, and shoe leather scraped at the tile floor. Samson cleared his throat, looked down at his notes, realized they weren't going to be of much use, and glanced up again.

  “The ratio of time periods between the crimes has escalated. We're getting a new stiff every other day, at least for the last four days. If that continues we can expect another victim tomorrow.”

  Samson turned to the man at his left. “John here is going to put you into two-man units. I'll let him and you decide who works with who.”

  “Whom.”

  Samson shifted his gaze to Detective Gonzalez in the back of the room where he stood leaning against the wall, his arms folded. “Whom, then. That's what we need right now, a grammar professor on this fucking case. Or should that be grammarian?”

  The men chuckled and Gonzalez dipped his head to accept the slight reprimand.

  “Now, no use going into what trouble we have on our hands. You all know the ropes when we have to make up a task force. So far, thanks to Detective Holly and some volunteers from this division, canvassing the bay area all the way from LaPorte to Texas City has turned up nothing. No suspicious characters. No witnesses. No physical evidence. Nada. I've been working the street people down in Montrose and I didn't come up with much from that either.

  “I want one unit backing me up down there. Twist arms if you have to. Call in all your IOUs from the snitches. Put them to work sniffing out the word on the street.

  “I want another unit here in the station doing background checks on the victims, in-depth checks. Making calls to family and friends, trying to find more connections. I want to know where these guys worked, and if they didn't work, where they got their money, what they ate for supper, who they screwed, how much they loved their women, and who those women were.

  “A third unit goes downtown to question the ME. I want names of co
mmercial products that have the poison in it . . .” He looked down now at the notes.

  “Warfarin. We know it's used in rat poison. See if it's in anything else easily available on the market. That same unit then starts checking outlets that sell it. Start with ones in Montrose, go on to ones around the bay area.”

  Again Gonzalez interrupted. “You mean Clear Lake and Channelview and everything?”

  “That's right. Every conceivable outlet.”

  Groans rose and fell into silence again. Samson raised his eyebrows; no one wanted that detail. “We want Dod's killer, don't we? Or do we? It's up to you.”

  He stared his men down then went on, clicking off how he wanted the teams split up to deal with every aspect of the series of crimes. He ended the meeting with, “I'll talk to our psychologist again, see if he can add anything to the profile the feds sent us. Also, you want me, you can see me down in Montrose. I do my best work on the street.”

  When the men were dismissed, John Borden shook his hand, “I'll put them to work within an hour.”

  Samson ran fingers through his hair in an unconscious gesture of fatigue. He had been up most of the night going over the papers in Dod's case file. “Good, the faster we . . .”

  “I'll see to it,” John said, breaking for the door. Samson gave a bemused smile. John was a workaholic with three bad marriages behind him and four kids to support. He moved like a coon dog let off the leash.

  Outside, Samson heard the fading voices of the detectives discussing what detail they'd like to be included on. Some of them were querulous, others sounded resigned. Most of them had been called onto serial-killer task forces before. They had no illusions. These were not the happy-bullshit throwers aching for a promotion the way Dod had been. They were neither young nor old, but all were tried-and-true veterans of the hunt, some with specific talents helpful on a task force. Gonzalez, with the mouth, had been instrumental in cracking the last round of serial killings that petrified the city. He might speak up more than he should, but there wasn't a better Hispanic detective on HPD, and Samson was lucky to have him.

  It was rumored Gonzalez was making noises about quitting the force and entering politics, trying for a city council seat representing the Hispanic block struggling in the brown ghettos ringing Houston. Samson sighed thinking of how he kept losing his best minds to the political wheel of fortune.

  He sat down heavily and drank cold coffee from a mug that had “Luv Ya Blue” written on it. Only the dedicated and the crazy stayed a detective for a bum's salary, when he could do security work for Standard Oil or Texas Eastern or try for the political brass ring at triple the money. What could the city expect the good minds to do, rot here in the bullpen on cases that half the time couldn't be solved?

  But right now he had Gonzalez. He had John Borden. He had the finest men the precinct could spare.

  Who knew if it would be enough?

  Wearily, Samson rose to his feet. A flash of recall made him pause. Shadow, in the club, holding her head and saying it was over. That was . . . Well, that was not only startling, but more painful than he could deal with right this minute. He wanted her to . . . Fuck it.

  He left the station for Montrose wondering if he'd left out enough dog food for Pavlov. Because Big Mac sure as hell wouldn't think to feed him. She still spent her free hours out on the street, habit being the mother of obsession, and obsession being the inventor of bag ladies, serial killers, and, possibly, homicide detectives . . .

  ~*~

  Shadow and Charlene sat at the kitchen table desultorily eating whatever their fingers groped blindly to find. There were potato chip and tortilla chip bags, an opened packet of thawed chicken tenders slightly heated from the microwave, a jar of Hellman's Dijonnaise mustard with a butter knife sticking out of it, Sociable crackers, a chunk of cheddar cheese, and a small jar of sweet pickles. Charlene didn't want to cook. She had not cooked a single meal in three days.

  They both waited for the evening television news. The TV that had been in Charlene's room, a nineteen-inch color with remote, sat on the kitchen counter. Dirty dishes circled it and sat precariously on top like a small army camped and waiting for a marauding enemy from over a rugged hill.

  Charlene had the remote, and kept flicking through the channels. Shadow tired of the blitz of voice and picture. She reached out wordlessly and took the remote from her friend's hand.

  Charlene grunted. “I don't care,” she said.

  And that was the problem. Charlene had stopped caring more than forty-eight hours ago when the detective had been fished from the bay channel, naked and dead and bloated as big as a whale.

  Shadow changed the channel to one of the stations where the five o'clock news would begin in just a few seconds. She eyed the clock on the wall. Hurry up, she thought. Tell me the bad news so I don't have to keep waiting for it.

  “He said he'd do another one if you didn't, so we know he did.” Charlene said this around a small scalloped cracker between her square, slightly off-white teeth.

  Shadow sighed and shrugged. What was she supposed to do about it? She had been hunting for some sign, some . . . signal . . . in the clubs for two nights running. What else could she do? And what good was her search? Was the Copycat another woman disguising her voice on the phone some way? Was it a man mad as a hatter, with wall eyes and a sardonic sneer to his lips? If the cops couldn't catch him, how was she supposed to do the miraculous?

  But then they hadn't found her out, either. Because she was careful.

  Which meant so was the Copycat.

  So how was she to . . .?

  The lead news item was the murder.

  “I told you so,” Charlene whispered.

  The video-cam on the scene took a far-off shot of the restaurants hugging the channel two miles from where Shadow and Charlene sat at the kitchen table. In the distance was the navy blue bay leading to the Gulf of Mexico. As the camera scanned, viewers could see the outline of Galveston Island dozing in a golden haze of noon sun. Then the camera shot tightened and zoomed until the viewer could see the body bag and the men lifting it onto a gurney.

  Shadow sat rigidly, holding her breath. Son did not lie. He had waited for her no more than one day and then he struck again.

  The crime scene shot dissolved and the female anchor was saying something about the police asking for civilian help in identifying the victim. As the anchor listed the specifics, a grainy police sketch filled the television screen.

  “The man was five foot, seven inches tall, and weighed approximately one hundred and forty pounds. Brown thinning hair, brown eyes. He wore contacts. There was a distinguishing mole on the right collarbone. If anyone has any information about this man . . .”

  Shadow gasped and knocked over the Dijonnaise bottle with a clatter. Charlene turned to her silently, watching.

  Shadow knew the victim. She didn't really know him, but she'd seen him in the clubs, seen him in the Blue Boa, for that matter. He was . . . wait! She had seen him somewhere else. And it was recently. It was . . . she closed her eyes to concentrate. Remember, she admonished, you've got to remember, this is important.

  It was at the . . . St John club. She had gone there after her set at the Boa, just poking around, wondering what she was going to do. She . . . wait . . . she walked in . . . and . . . she saw a man she knew, but he was in some kind of disguise—that or else he had a twin brother who was older, heavier, mustached. But that only entered her mind for a moment because she knew it was him, not a brother, not a cousin. It was him, disguised.

  Frank.

  She had seen this latest victim with Frank. Was it Frank whose voice spoke to her on the phone, who called himself “Son,” who was the Copycat? Could it be? The man who read Travis McGee novels and watched comedic movies? One of the few customers she had felt at ease talking to, a nondescript, nonthreatening, asexual friend?

  “Jesus,” she whispered.

  “What is it?” Charlene asked. “You know the dead man, don't you?�
��

  Shadow rooted herself in the present. She gazed vacantly at Charlene, the pit of her stomach sinking. “Yes, I know him,” she murmured. “And I know who killed him too.”

  ~*~

  He crouched in a tangle of vines that hugged the brick wall. For minutes at a time he sat this way, knees creaking and aching, feet going to sleep, numb as rock. Then he would rise, slowly, thinking of soap bubbles drifting skyward, how pure and clear and silent they were, and turn again twisting from the waist.

  Inside the window he could see them at the far end of the kitchen where they sat at a table eating and watching TV. The crazy woman in the gray sweater, that sweater she wore despite the killing summer heat, and Shadow, dear, lovely Shadow of the black midnight hair and bronzed skin. He knew her name was Katherine but, sorry, she was no Katherine, or Kate, Kitty, Kathy, Kat. She was Shadow. It was as pure and clear to him as the thought of soap bubbles rising. She had taken the name and wasn't there something grand, something original in the act of choosing one's own name that made it real and meaningful? Katherine was a name parents chose for a girl child, a baby they hope will grow up straight, strong, and completely diligent. Shadow was the name of things that slipped along the earth, covering it, protecting it from the fury of the sun. The Son.

  He had not chosen his name. He had adopted it, however, and made it as fully his own as if he had made the choice himself. He was not Frank, that was a pretend name, a made-up-on-the-spur-of-the-moment name. He was also not the name his parents gave him, that name on the spines of his books, the name he used to sign checks, to pay his taxes to the government.

  He was the son of his mother. The son of his father. The son of the world. He was kin to every man and named for the Savior, that King of Kings.

  His lips curved, a smile splitting his face in two like a knife blade. He should have been a real writer, his thoughts were so marvelous, melodic, and poetic. It was true that's what he should have been had things been different and had he been willing to sacrifice his ideals.