Lupo selected a cross aisle and went left, but he sensed the trail was cold.
He stalked down a few identical aisles, but then he gave up.
Was he sensing, or the Creature? Didn’t matter, the trail – such as it was – seemed to be cold.
THE ARCHER
He hadn't thought ahead too many moves – or targets.
That was how you became predictable. He didn't want predictability. He wanted them to piece together his message, feel his fury, and eventually understand… even though he knew they wouldn't. But he'd put up with so much throughout his life, now it was his turn to communicate his feelings. On TV they were always telling you to express your feelings. That fat Doctor Phil guy and all those other talking heads thought feelings should all be exposed, communicated. Well, that turned out to be good advice good, and The Archer felt a lot better now that he had begun to communicate.
Now he was in need of a new target. He went over his options.
At first he'd thought, another dealer. There were many to choose from, and if he picked another attractive female it would be big news. The second target, the guy, was cementing The Archer’s reputation, but would they care as much? If he picked another male, chances were no one would really care. So he had figured his course was set and settled then. Another female dealer.
But then… then he'd started to think reporter.
And the more he thought about it, the better it sounded.
So now he watched as one of the cops from last night was back again – the thinner one with the wrinkled suit – talking to a couple of the casino security guys. They nodded grimly at what he told them and walked away, leaving him alone in the ebbing crowd. He looked tired, worn out really, probably because he'd been here holding the fort while the big cop pulled rank and went off to do something civilized like sleep. But now he was back, looking not rested at all.
The Archer was amused, watching all this effort to take him down. Now he was ducking behind a rank of brightly-lit, flashing slot machines sporting towers with an added "Wheel of Fortune" add-on that gave players the chance to add to their wins. You couldn't really lurk without showing up on the cameras, so he was actually gambling, watching quarter-sized credits dip and rise on his twenty, a small enough investment to make himself nearly invisible. The machine’s wheel of fortune towered over him and the others nearby were like a rank of sentinels hiding him, so he could lean slightly in the chair and look past the machinery at the action.
Interesting.
The Archer raised an eyebrow.
He watched as that same reporter from last night, the hot one with the nicotine habit, dragged her camera guy with her and approached the tired cop. She looked a little worse for wear but was still hot enough to melt your eyelids, and he stared at her so intensely that he forgot to spin his machine's dials. She wanted to do an interview apparently, a microphone looking rather phallic in her slender hand, cradled by pointed red fingernails, but the cop was waving her off, shaking his head and trying to turn away. She was persistent, turning with him so he couldn't avoid facing her. Their voices were starting to rise, audible even with the continuous wave of sound all around them. The cop wasn’t being very accommodating, and she was frustrated, and the camera guy was just standing there, uncomfortable.
Then someone else approached the three. The cop greeted her with some obvious relief.
This time The Archer remembered to hit the Bet button, but he didn't watch the machine’s spinning reels and the lights. His attention was riveted by the newcomer.
She was really something. She was more attractive than the reporter lady, completely outclassing her without effort. There was a decidedly less plastic look to her, that was it.
The reporter did a kind of double-take too, then smiled and nodded as the three of them talked a bit, and then she seemed to defer to the newcomer, who was pulling some sort of rank and seeming to politely wave off the reporter.
The Archer watched intently but couldn't decipher the body language. Was the newcomer lady outranking the reporter? Either way, the reporter's attractiveness had faded for the Archer, who now found himself staring at the new arrival. She had on a well-worn brown leather jacket like a pilot’s, tight jeans that showed off her spectacular ass, and ankle-high boots. She looked like a hip explorer-type, like an investigative reporter assigned to Afghanistan might look if she'd just stepped off a plane. But her chestnut hair and fantastic features made her look even hotter than Tanya the dealer.
Tanya…
Suddenly he could barely remember Tanya’s face. Sorry, Tanya.
He felt his groin stirring, knowing that just the sight of this goddess was what he'd wanted, what he'd hoped for. A reporter, maybe, he wasn’t sure. Maybe a reporter on her day off? On vacation? Dragged in by him, The Archer and his story? She was vaguely familiar. Maybe he’d seen her on television? Whatever, she was exactly what he needed…
If she was a reporter, she had to be his next target.
His hard-on suddenly throbbing, he switched machines without losing sight of the tableau in the center of all the action.
The goddess talked with the thin cop some more, both grinning and nodding like old friends, and suddenly he wanted to kill the sonofabitch. He wanted to choke him until he could feel the cop’s life leaking out of him. He pictured the cop with one of The Archer’s bolts sticking out of his chest, looking down in shock where the stain would be spreading fast, the colorful fletching marking where the red rose would bloom, anomalous as death came and dropped the bastard’s body flopping to the ground right there, in the middle of the casino’s main floor.
The goddess would shrink back in horror…
But he couldn’t risk it. As much as he would have loved it, there was no good way to sneak a fucking crossbow into the casino. And without it he couldn’t be The Archer, could he?
He stared at the woman’s back, now turned to him, but suddenly she whirled and almost caught him staring at her. He went into motion and walked past her, twenty feet away, a man with a mission. He ignored her glance and kept going until he was sure he’d disappeared behind another island of slot machines encased in a smoky fog. Only then did he realize he’d left behind his active slot machine with money in the credit slot. Oh well, somebody would get lucky. He shrugged. It was only a few dollars. Money no longer mattered to him. Without a job, without the ability to make money handling money, he was lost in his own sense of needed revenge.
Once past them, he turned and snuck a look. She was still standing in the middle of the aisle, talking to the cop, yet clearly wondering where to go next. What was she looking for? Who?
He thought he heard the thin cop call her Jessie.
God, she was something! She almost made the other reporter, the smoking chick he’d lusted after fade right from his memory.
Almost.
He muttered to himself as the lights blinked beside him, unseen. He saw the reporter weaving through the aisle just ahead of him again, her motions jerky. She’d ditched the camera guy, or had given him an assignment. She stopped walking now, pulled out a mirror and fixed her face.
Yes, he had found his new target.
She was the one.
But suddenly he didn’t want to just shoot her. He wanted to possess her first. The Archer would have his say, but first there would be a small detour. She shouldn’t be a target here at the casino, where the other – more mundane – targets had been.
She was the one. She was special, and she had to be handled specially.
JESSIE
After successfully talking the chatty, pushy TV reporter into leaving Rich DiSanto alone – using Nick Lupo's name had seemed to work wonders – she had spent a few minutes catching up with DiSanto, who looked like he was about to drop. He told her Lupo had called him back and she smiled grimly, knowing her tryst with Nick had cost poor Rich the sleep he needed. She didn’t tell him. He probably already figured.
“You heard about the second vic?” DiSanto was
saying.
She nodded. “I just walked past the crowd out there. It’s terrible, people being murdered senselessly. I don’t know how you guys do it, day in and day out.”
DiSanto chuckled mirthlessly. “Drugs and alcohol. The occasional breakdown.”
She touched his arm, serious. “Must be hard.”
“You get used to it on the one hand,” he said. “But on the other, not really. We’ll get this guy, though. It’s just… well, he’s got a streak going, and the question is how many more he’ll target before we close in.” He passed a hand over his hair, smoothing it from its pillow shape. “Nick told me about your ideas. Good call. He seems convinced you’re on the right track. We never thought about people who got rejected before being hired…”
“You would have, eventually,” she said, touching his arm again. “I mean, it just came to me, maybe because I’m looking at it from the outside.”
“No, that’s good psychology. You’re a doctor, you know how people think.”
“If I did… I’d have a lot easier time up on the rez.”
DiSanto turned to scan a knot of security guys at the far end of the aisle. “I’d better check in with those guys. I’ll tell Nick you’re around if I see him before you do. I think he’s here somewhere in this maze. He called me back, so his ass had better be here!”
“Thanks,” she said. She really liked DiSanto. She was happy that he watched Nick’s back. She sensed he was a lot more efficient than his surface persona. The one persona Nick was always teasing.
He grinned his boyish grin, but the lack of sleep was making his face sag at the corners and his eyes seemed nearly glazed.
She watched him walk away.
Then she sensed eyes on her and turned, expecting to catch a glimpse of Lupo striding toward her. But instead it was another tired-looking guy shuffling past. He didn’t look like a gambler type at all. He seemed watchful. Another cop, she guessed, dragged out of bed, but she didn’t know him. Half the department was probably here. She watched him stumble across her field of vision, his eyes sweeping over her, over the other security people, the gamblers. He seemed to be aware of everything.
Then he disappeared around an island of slot machines, and she set about trying to find Nick.
She went for her phone but her pocket was empty. Had that moment everyone has, a sort of What the hell? It should be here! moment, and patted her pocket as if there was a chance she just couldn’t feel the plastic and metal slab. Then patted the other pockets.
She’d used it in the Pathfinder. Then she’d put it on the passenger seat when she unbuckled her seat belt.
Oh well, I’m either going to find Nick the old-fashioned way or I’m going to find the truck and get the phone.
She weighed her options.
Six of one…
She set out back into the heart of the loud casino environment, figuring she’d either run into Nick or DiSanto again, or maybe one of the few other cops she knew, and it would be quicker than going for the phone.
As she walked, she felt a strange urge to try the beckoning slot machines.
That was funny, she always listened to The Turn of a Friendly Card, their favorite Alan Parsons Project, and heard it as Eric Woolfson’s colorful but cautionary tale about the evils of gambling, yet here she was, reaching into her pocket for a folded bill. They took bills, didn’t they, the slot machines? Of course they do.
She pulled out a twenty. Stepped up to a machine with colorful fantasy creatures on its face, a catchy electronic song with pumped-up bass playing over and over, and a bunch of rolling cylinders with pictures on each of many faces. She watched as nearby players fed their machines and imitated them, sliding the bill into the lit-up slot. It was eaten with a grinding sound and then a series of numbers popped up on the little window accompanied by a jaunty synthesizer ditty. She did the math and realized it had counted her twenty as eighty quarters. She watched another player ignore the old one-armed bandit limb on the side of his machine and push a button on the face, did the same, and watched the cylinders spin, mesmerized by the colors and the pictures of fruit and the words BAR or BAR BAR or BAR BAR BAR flashing by until they all stopped, and nothing happened. Nothing, that is, except that one was subtracted from her total of eighty.
Well, that was fast, she thought. She pushed the button again, watched as the cylinders spun, stylized fruit and strange little icons rolling until they all stopped and no two matched. Another single number was subtracted from her total. Loser, again.
Almost without realizing it, her hand reached out and smacked the button once more as if she had decided to deny the reality of loss. The cylinders spun crazily as she blinked, trying to freeze them in place with a glance, and this time the words BAR BAR faced her from all three cylinder windows. The music’s volume increased, lights flashed, and she watched the red numbers increase by twenty. Ninety-eight! She’d won!
She glanced around. No one was looking at her, but she felt the flush of an unexpected excitement creeping up on her face.
For a moment, she forgot that she wanted to find Nick.
Instead, she reached out for the button and pressed it again.
What are these other buttons? she wondered. Bet Max, Cash Out.
Again, she forgot about Nick.
She reached out and touched the button. It was warm. She pushed it.
THE ARCHER
He’d followed the cop he’d seen talking to the extraordinary beauty, but that guy had joined a group of casino “kops” and they’d shuffled around as a group, then breaking up to head in different directions. He’d been forced to make a quick decision. He wanted it to be perfect, but maybe he was expecting too much of himself.
He followed two cops as they stalked the aisles, looking for him. They had no idea what he looked like, and in fact even if he happened to have returned, but they were giving it their best effort. He grinned and played eeny-meeny-miney-moe.
Which one would it be?
He was torn, but the itch to do something was growing. It was a strong sensation. He wanted the crossbow in his hands.
But then he doubled back and saw that the mysterious woman had propped her amazing ass in front of a slot machine and seemed lost there, as if she’d never seen one before.
He stared at the woman’s back for a minute, lost in thought.
Choices…
He spotted one of the cops returning, apparently having broken away from the group that had stalked off toward the outer perimeter of the casino proper. The guy had just spoken to the same cop who’d hobnobbed with the maybe-reporter chick. Clearly they were both cops, here to canvass or whatever the fuck they did as they searched for The Archer.
As they searched for him.
He liked feeling important. He wondered what the TV news was saying about him. Had CNN caught on yet? Had he gone national?
This might do it…
The cop he was following ducked into one of many arched restroom entrances that dotted the outer walls of the big shed-like casino. It was still early morning, so The Archer threw caution to the wind (he’d always wanted to say that) and followed the slender guy through into a long and narrow, dark marble-lined room with a dozen urinals along one wall, and a half-dozen stalls beyond that, with sinks and mirrors opposite. It was one of the casino’s smaller bathroom facilities, and as he’d expected it was empty. He just glimpsed the cop disappearing into one of the stalls.
How perfect is that?
The Archer was working on instinct now, instinct and adrenaline.
And inspiration.
His next target had to be a newschick. He had convinced himself that it would be his best statement now, at this point in his spree. And they were so smug, always looking so perfect on camera. They were so self-involved, he doubted they even understood the stories they read in their breathless tone, winking at the lens. He thought furiously. He wanted to play it just right, get on the news in just the right way. If that excellent example of a reporter-ty
pe was his destiny, then he had to listen to what the universe was telling him. But first he had to get close to her.
If he’d sat down to think about it, he might have hesitated and most likely rejected his own his own evolving plan, and the moment would have passed.
But he didn’t sit down to think about it.
He had to act now.
He was right behind the cop, actually closer than he had even realized, and he sped up his pace and widened his stride until he reached the stall door just as the cop inside was closing it, rattling the latch.
The Archer had his stun gun in hand and when the cop whirled about in the stall, his body was blocked by The Archer’s and the stun gun went to the guy’s neck and he took the zap, vibrating like a cartoon character until his eyes rolled up in their sockets. The Archer kept it up and when the current finally stopped the cop sagged to the tiled floor like a sack of flour. Half unconscious, fingers trembling and eyelids fluttering, the cop was helpless.
Now The Archer had a problem. What to do? His instinct was to slit the cop’s throat, but the blood would be too copious. It would splash all over his clothes, defeating his purpose. This was why he liked the crossbow – it was almost impersonal, yet still somehow intimate.
The cop was still out but twitching, so The Archer closed and latched the stall door and hunched over the body, pinching the nose shut with one hand, and bringing his weight to bear on the man’s mouth with the other, cutting off his air until he came to and started to struggle, his eyes exploding open so the whites were visible all the way around the pupils. The cop struggled feebly, but The Archer’s weight and position effectively kept him trapped against the floor tiles, the toilet, and the lower flange of the privacy wall until the air ran out, he struggled once more, a last weak effort, and he lost consciousness.
The Archer continued to wait, pressing down with all his strength, until he felt life leaving the cop’s feeble body. Then the cop’s bladder loosened and the sharp ammonia smell of urine twitched The Archer’s nostrils. A couple tense minutes more to make sure, and then he manhandled the limp body and propped it onto the toilet, the head lolling obscenely onto the plastic toilet paper dispenser.
Wolf's Deal: A Nick Lupo Novella (The Nick Lupo Series) Page 8
