Everyman should have killed the two Champines that very first night. It would have been the logical thing to do, the most humane, and possibly the kindest. Two bullets to the head, each, and done the girl as well.
It would have saved the three of them from all the future pain and suffering.
Nicky Champine had fucked the pooch on his initial hunt. It’d been sloppy as hell—clusterfuck would be the proper term—and Champine was lucky he’d not been caught on the spot. The girl’s rust bucket of a VW Cabrio had been abandoned at a rest stop off I-57—north of Kankakee—her purse kicked under the car. Nicky Champine should have further thanked his lucky stars that Everyman had gotten there first, lest Champine’s burgeoning career would have been nipped in the bud by the local constables.
Everyman knew about the blind spots. Everyman lived in the blind spots.
And Nicky Champine didn’t know about shit.
He’d walked about the rest area, verifying that no one from the other cars stopping to take leaks and stretch limbs held any interest in the VW convertible. And when the other cars had vamoosed, Everyman batted cleanup. Thank God the poor woman had dropped her purse in the abbreviated struggle, and Champine had panic-kicked it under her car before diving into his Pontiac and zipping away. Everyman would have hated to drill key-deep and then jam a flat head screwdriver into the Cabrio’s ignition while tourists came and went.
Instead, Everyman was able to drive the girl’s ragtop to Englewood, ditch it at a run-down strip mall that appeared to have more commerce taking place on the outer walkway than inside the shopping plaza. He left the doors unlocked, the keys in the ignition, and the girl’s purse atop the dashboard for all to see.
Everyman figured the Cabrio was gone by the time he’d jumped a downtown bus.
He then spent a small fortune in cab fare getting back to his own vehicle at the I-57 rest stop. He’d bought a two-gallon gas can, filled it at the gas station from where he’d had them call him a cab, and told the driver he was helping his idiot nephew who’d run out of fuel and made it to the rest area running on fumes. The driver could not give a shit and Everyman tipped him forty bucks to keep it that way.
So when Everyman hunted down Nicky Champine’s Bridgeport home that evening, he had every intention of killing every last soul in the house for the trouble he’d been put through that afternoon … for having to clean up the mess Champine had left on his stomping grounds. Everyman parked his vehicle, now sporting a set of recently lifted plates, a block away, circled Champine’s rambler, peeked in windows, and, at three in the morning, he hit the front door like a hot knife slicing through butter. He had his SIG Sauer 1911 in Nicky Champine’s mouth a split second before the man’s eyes fluttered open. But Everyman heard the pitter-pat of feet in the hallway from where he’d just crept and spun sideways. An undersized silhouette filled the bedroom doorframe, something sharp and shiny in his hand. The shape darted forward and Everyman’s finger tightened on the trigger when Nicky Champine screamed something incomprehensible from the bed.
The figure froze mid-room.
Everyman was taken aback, kept one eye on the new arrival and one on Champine as he struggled with the lamp on his bedside table. A moment later the room was illuminated and Everyman got his second surprise of the day. The kid in the center of Nicky Champine’s bedroom wore cutoff sweat bottoms, a white T-shirt, and looked to be all of ten years old.
“Don’t hurt Junior,” Champine pleaded. “Don’t hurt my son.”
“Then perhaps Junior should drop the butter knife and lie down on the floor,” Everyman said.
Over blueberry Pop-Tarts and cherry Kool-Aid—they had no coffee to offer him—Everyman decided not to kill father and son Champine. He listened as Nicky Champine told their tale. Everyman had to keep himself from chuckling at certain portions of the man’s account—as that would be rude—and eventually he holstered his .45 caliber pistol.
Evidently, the two were all they had in the world as mother-slash-grandmother and sister-slash-mother had both since passed away. You couldn’t make this stuff up, thought Everyman, who up till now had thought he’d seen everything. He knew in the back of his mind that shrinks would have a field day with him, but the Champine pair was off the charts.
And since Everyman wore the blond mullet wig, the Buddy Holly frames with clear glass, a John Deere hat, and a thick brown jacket, these two would never be able to pick him out of any lineup the police had to offer.
The Champines were of no threat.
In fact, by the time the sun was coming up, Everyman found himself giving Nicky Champine tips and tricks. Best practices to keep from getting caught, things to sure as hell avoid—meaning everything Nicky Champine had done at the I-57 rest stop. Everyman didn’t know if he’d spared the two out of sheer delight at their bizarre nature, out of them being somewhat kindred spirits, or if he remembered how big a fool he’d been when starting out.
Everyman had started ages ago … in college.
The first time had been a debacle; he’d half-assed it just like Nicky Champine. Everyman had played at private detective, and followed an elderly couple home from the mall. He found out where they lived and came back to their house in the middle of that same night. Although all the house lights on the block were off, Everyman’s first mistake had been parking across the street as though he were visiting their neighbor. His second mistake had been the racket he’d made breaking into the side garage door with the crowbar he’d brought along. Thankfully, the side of the house was shrouded by a redwood fence in order to hide a row of garbage and recycle bins, but after busting open the door Everyman had hidden in some nearby bushes a full ten minutes, watching for house lights to pop on, listening for police sirens, before he felt it was safe to continue.
Then he entered the elderly couple’s garage through the busted side door.
And though he’d hurried, he made roughly the same amount of noise prying open the kitchen door as he had breaking into the garage. In fact, the old codger stumbled out of bed and into the hallway, flipping on the hallway light in time to spot Everyman charging him, crowbar held high above his head.
It happened so quickly, Everyman wasn’t able to enjoy it. It wasn’t what he’d expected or what he needed it to be.
It wasn’t fulfilling.
He took more time with the spouse.
Then Everyman got paranoid—about fingerprints and hair fibers, blood spatter and his footprints in the bushes. And about any neighbor-witnesses. He was smart enough at the time to know he’d screwed this thing up six ways from Sunday. Everyman went into the garage, found several bottles of lighter fluid, then started in the basement, and as he backed his way through the house, he sprayed the wooden staircase, the carpeting, the sofas and love seats, the tables and walls and curtains … anything that would burn. Finally, he lit a chunk of newspaper, tossed it on the steps, paused to verify it took before darting out the garage, across the street, and jumping behind the wheel of his car. His heart beat so fast he thought it’d quit. But Everyman stayed long enough to spot flames through the old couple’s front window before gunning it out of the neighborhood.
It had been exhilarating … thrilling … and what Everyman figured must be an adrenaline rush. He’d caught the news that morning. A fire had burned down a house, sadly killing the elderly twosome—William and Georgia Donovan—who lived there. It was considered a horrible tragedy—that is until the medical examiner performed the postmortems and found, among other nasty tidbits, that there was no smoke in either of Mr. or Mrs. Donovan’s lungs.
And the fire department investigators soon found all sorts of indicators that an accelerant had been used here, there, and everywhere.
Everyman lived on pins and needles that semester, expecting the police to yank him out of class or from his campus apartment at any second. It turned out a neighbor had in fact seen his car peel away, but, thank God, had informed the police that he believed it to be the Donovan’s estranged son—a drug-add
led mess of a man who’d made the old couple’s lives a living hell for decades. The neighbors all figured young Donovan had done them in for whatever meager inheritance he’d have coming. And since young Donovan had no alibi outside of another night of passing out, the police got their hooks deep into him.
They eventually dropped charges against young master Donovan for lack of evidence at about the same time Everyman was graduating magna cum laude.
* * *
Everyman killed the flashlight as he edged out of the tree line. He held the night-vision goggles to his eyes and spotted Dog Man Reid’s pickup truck. It was the only vehicle in the patch of flat grass and gravel that, evidently, constituted Dog Man’s garage. Although there were no other cars, that didn’t necessarily mean Dog Man was alone, that a spouse or girlfriend or, hell, a boyfriend, wasn’t sharing Dog Man’s bed. Dog Man’s website had been minimalistic, basically blurry pictures of various mutts, a schedule of his upcoming obedience classes, and contact information—a phone number and email link—in case you’d like to set up a training class or have your canine receive private lessons.
Everyman hung the night goggles down around his neck, retreated into the woods, thirty feet, and brought the small flashlight back into play. He cut along sideways, until he was even with Dog Man’s backyard. He snapped off the light and again brought the goggles to his eyes—a picnic table, plastic yard chairs strewn about, and a lopsided gas grill that looked to be a dozen brats away from collapse. Dog Man’s yard arched upward in a slight mound before flattening out as it worked the fifty-odd yards toward the woodland, toward where Everyman now stood.
Dog Man’s place had a small deck, raised maybe two feet, with only a sliding glass door to keep the night away. He let the goggles dangle around his neck and stared at the back of the trailer home. A gap between the drapes covering the sliding glass indicated a light or two had been left on inside.
But everything else indicated the household was lifeless … sound asleep.
This was the opportunity Everyman had been hoping for—to score a hole in one. The sliding glass door would be child’s play. He could get through that entryway without breaking stride. Once inside the trailer home, and once inside whatever passed for a master bedroom, he’d take out whatever gender of houseguest, if any, with whom Dog Man shared his bed. This would wake Dog Man up of course, unavoidable, but that was okay. Then, he would make Reid pay for what had occurred at Champine’s rambler.
He wanted Dog Man Reid to see his face—his true face—before he shot him in the mouth.
Everyman raised his SIG 1911 and stepped into Mason Reid’s backyard.
CHAPTER 15
I woke with a start.
I’d slipped down on the sofa, head lopsided on a cushion … my heart pounding. My eyes focused on the TV in front of me. Some home fixer-upper show—the kind Mickie had gotten me addicted to—droned on with the volume set at five. I poked at the clicker until the current time displayed on screen.
2:30 a.m.
I’d been having nightmares lately, weird and surreal. Something—a mishmash of ogres, beasts, or some other monster—was always after me, breathing down my neck, and reaching out with gigantic arms or spider legs or tentacles or whatever. None of the dreams made a whit of sense, and I knew they stemmed from my interactions with Nicky Champine and his feral son, nevertheless, I’d taken to nodding off on the sofa—keeping Sue’s spot warm for him, I guess—with the TV on low as well as a light from the kitchen.
Vira growled—low and guttural—her warning pitch. And then I realized it wasn’t a nightmare that had woken me.
I jumped forward, peeked out the front window, and slapped the porch light on. No one was out front.
“What is it, Vira?” I asked.
My golden did a one-eighty, turned toward the pet door, and began to bark. Delta and Maggie came in from the bedroom, twisted about in concentration, and then joined in with Vira, facing the back door and adding their voices to the cacophony.
“Quiet,” I said, killing the kitchen light and TV, making the room dark, making it harder for anyone trying to peer inside.
Something was out there all right. In back, maybe near the woods where I do some of our HRD training. We did get the occasional deer and opossums. Not long ago, Sue had treed a raccoon. Frankly, the kids could give a shit about mere squirrels and chipmunks and most rabbits—unless the little critters pushed the envelope.
And the little critters never felt the need to push the envelope, especially around Sue.
But what worried me most was, some years back, I’d seen coyotes—and more than one. As a result the pet door gets shut down at night. Coyotes can be devious bastards if desperate for food. They can bait dogs, lure them away from their homes, and get them out in the open where the coyote pack can circle their prey.
At that point it’s a one-sided fight and over quickly.
I hit the deck light, cut into the back bedroom, and pulled aside an inch of curtain. I scanned back and forth. Nothing on the deck or on the lawn that I could see. Perhaps the barking had scared away some deer. Perhaps a raccoon heard Sue was away and stopped by to thumb his nose and flip us the bird. I worked my gaze farther across the yard, toward the tree line, away from the deck light and toward the darkness.
Maggie and Delta stood in the doorframe watching me while my golden stood sentry at the pet door. And then Vira started in again, a throaty snarl from her perch at the sliding glass. She was informing me that whatever was out there had most certainly not gone away. Vira began barking again and the two sister collies ran back to the living room to join in the choir.
This time I didn’t hush them.
The mind wanders down dark passageways in the middle of the night, dark thoroughfares that would be laughed at in the cold light of day. I was frightened. And Mickie was no longer here to help me shrug it off. Quite frankly, I wanted anything or anyone out there in the dark to hear my snarling girls—to hear them loud and clear, and in no uncertain terms—like a blinking neon sign on a dark Vegas night … with the sign flashing: BEWARE OF THE DOGS.
My eyes returned to the darkness, to scanning the tree line at the outer edge of my property. I no longer thought of coyotes trying to draw my kids outside. I didn’t know what to think but kept staring across my parcel of land, hoping for an answer that would make me giggle and allow me to tease the girls for causing such a stir, but no such … Jesus Christ … I damn near leapt backward but clawed at the windowsill. A shape—I’d taken for some bush or busted tree—receded back into the haze, and farther back, fading away into the shadows.
By the time I was finally able to breathe again, the dogs had settled, growls tapering off to silence.
And though I flipped on all exterior lights, and though I shut and locked all windows, and though I double-checked all doors, and though I had three damned good watchdogs, I didn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night.
CHAPTER 16
Everyman backed into the tree line at the first snarl.
He stood motionless, listening as the growls grew louder and a light on the front side of Reid’s trailer popped on. He knew that Champine’s kid had taken out one of Dog Man’s cadaver dogs. He wondered how many Mason Reid had left. Everyman didn’t sweat one dog. He’d become pretty handy with the SIG 1911. And he might even be able to hold his own with two of Reid’s mutts, but he suspected a third one might eventually connect with an artery.
Especially if Reid had another German shepherd, like the one he’d seen at Champine’s house.
As if to answer his query, the dog began to bark and was quickly joined by at least two or three others. The lights then went off in Dog Man’s trailer and Everyman took another step backward. The pack of dogs quieted and the deck light came on, illuminating the yard, but by then Everyman had positioned himself far enough back, in the shadows … of the shadows.
Can you see me? Everyman knew Dog Man Reid would be staring outside, looking left and right, trying to ferret out
what was causing the ruckus—the anarchy—and eventually squinting his way.
Can you see me, Dog Man?
* * *
Everyman had been there that morning, at the demolished sausage shop north of Polish Village. He’d seen firsthand what Dog Man’s golden retriever had done to Nicky Champine. He’d also seen the aftermath of what Dog Man and his German shepherd had done at the Bridgeport house near Bubbly Creek.
That had been a most unpleasant day.
Everyman had been on his way to the office, wearing his everyday mask—his true face—when he heard the call on the police scanner he kept in his car. A summer dress—blue chiffon and lace—had been tied to the front gate at the construction site. The police feared it was the work of the Velvet Choker Killer.
It was out of the way, but Everyman had a certain amount of leeway at work, so he got in the turn lane at the light and took a morning detour. He sat in his car, down the block, and watched the gathering crowd. He watched as a young guy in a pickup truck parked out front of the construction site, and as the young guy and his golden retriever were hustled inside by a pair of cops in blue.
And then he couldn’t believe his eyes.
That goddamned Nicky Champine was intermixed in the crowd of onlookers gawking at the police activity. It was one of the first things he’d warned that numbskull against ever doing.
Jesus Christ—he should have killed Champine that first night in Bridgeport.
Everyman sat and steamed. He was so pissed off he thought of doing something stupid himself. He thought of walking over and yanking Nicky Champine away from the ad hoc get-together, but Champine wouldn’t recognize Everyman’s true face.
Champine only knew him as John Deere hat, blond wig, and black glasses.
After an instant, he knew he’d be damned before he’d ever show fuck-up Nicky Champine his true face.
The Finders Page 7
