“You’re not a lawyer, Mr. Fabler. You can’t determine if—”
“No, I’m not a lawyer. (eyes narrowing) You know what I am.”
“What are you telling me, Mr. Fabler?”
“I’m telling you to drop it. Understand?”
“I… understand.”
“We’re not discussing what happened to Lori. Ever. Do your job and get me the hell out of here.”
May 9, 2017 ○ 3:39pm
Hi, it’s Lori. Can’t come to the phone, but your call is important to me, unless you’re a telemarketer, then it’s not, and you need to remove my number from your list. But if you’re someone I like, such as my adoring husband, leave me a message at the beep.
“I’m getting out, babe. I’m going home. I know exactly what I need to do. It’ll be risky. There will be casualties. I expect it. But my plan is a good one. I’ve worked out most of the details. As long as I don’t make any more mistakes, I think I can do it. This time, no one will stop me. Not the cops. Not your brother. Not anyone. I love you, Lori.”
May 10, 2017 ○ 10:19am
(through the glass)
“Congratulations, Mr. Fabler. We did it.”
(no emotion)
“You, uh, you should reconsider and pursue civil action against Officer Pilgrim.”
“He lost his sister. He lost his job. He may go to prison. And you want me to sue? Wasn’t the compensation from the state enough?”
“He framed you.”
“I don’t require your services anymore. I’ll deal with Officer Pilgrim.”
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Fabler?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“Are you planning on committing a crime, Mr. Fabler? Because attorney-client privilege—”
“Thank you for your help, counselor. I’m sure you’ll send me the bill.”
“One more thing, Mr. Fabler. If you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. I have things to do.”
“It’s a quick question. Not about Lori. You’ve made it clear you won’t go there. But something else has been nagging me.”
“What’s that?”
“You knew. All along. Didn’t you? You knew you were getting out of here. This has been your plan from the beginning.”
“We’re done with this conversation.”
“The state can’t charge you again. Double jeopardy. You’re a free man. You beat a murder rap.”
(standing to leave)
“How did you know about the shoes, Mr. Fabler?”
“Goodbye, counselor.”
THE WATCHER ○ May 11, 2017+ ○ 3:33pm ○ 7442497494516803
So much to see.
Unlimited choices.
When you stare into infinity, infinity stares back.
But infinity means infinite solutions.
The Watcher only needs to pursue a few.
Infinite possibilities, for a finite problem.
All he needs to do is be smart enough to whittle those possibilities down.
Of course, timing is everything. But the architecture is already in place.
“I am watching you, and you don’t have a clue.”
He smiles as he talks to the screen.
To the person on the screen.
“You have no idea what is in store for you.
“You have no idea what will happen.
“You think this world makes sense.
“You are wrong. You are wrong about everything.
“You think you can understand?
“You cannot.
“The truth cannot be explained.
“It can only be shown.”
The Watcher considers the Experiment.
It gives him purpose.
It excites him.
He touches the screen.
“I am going to blow your tiny little mind with the truth.”
FABLER ○ May 12, 2017 ○ 2:26pm
The cabin was too big. Too quiet. Too empty.
Dusty, with a damp odor.
Devoid of life.
Fabler had forgotten how secluded life used to be. How private. How cut-off from the rest of the world.
With Lori, a log house in the woods was perfect.
Without her, terribly sad and lonely.
The nature sounds gave some comfort. But not enough.
Fabler opened all the windows, for the first time in years.
Overgrowth everywhere, making the property appear abandoned. But the dead, brown circle of lawn remained.
He tried to think.
Couldn’t.
Tried to relax.
Couldn’t.
Tried to cry.
All out of tears.
The bed was ridiculous. Like lying on a cloud. Fabler had gotten used to prison cots. Sleep would be impossible.
All alone.
Staring at Lori’s side of the bed.
He thought:
At one am, he dug an old sleeping bag out of the closet.
Fabler relocated some shoes and the hamper, tucked himself into the bag, and closed his eyes.
Sleep didn’t come.
May 13, 2017 ○ 11:56am
A computer.
A printer.
A back-up printer.
Paper.
Lots and lots of ink.
The clerk grinned like he knew what Fabler was doing. “Doing a little printing?”
Fabler forked over a wad of hundred dollar bills from the bag the bank had given him. The bag full of settlement cash.
He put everything into his brand new Jeep and considered his next move.
But Fabler didn’t plan to be around long enough for that to happen. He started the vehicle and headed for the Pawn ‘N Shop to exchange his currency for precious metal.
May 18, 2017 ○ 11:54pm
Thinking.
Searching.
Printing.
Staring.
Planning.
Searching.
Printing.
Trying to figure out the connections.
“One hundred and five days. One oh five.”
May 20, 2017 ○ 2:26pm
Fabler spent the entire day, trying to come up with some proof.
Then he gave up and went back to printing pictures and double-checking dates.
May 23, 2017 ○ 7:56am
Fabler proofread his Craigslist ad for the tenth time.
Assistant wanted. $600 a week plus room and board. Female, between 30 and 35, 5’4” to 5’6”, athletic, redhead, blue eyes. Serious inquiries only. Text picture.
It still sounded like a sex ad. So Fabler put No sex after blue eyes.
The first response came within ten minutes.
He tweaked it.
Assistant wanted. $600 a week plus room and board. Female, between 30 and 35, 5’4” to 5’6”, 120 to 130 pounds, athletic, redhead, blue eyes. No sex. Serious inquiries only. Text picture.
The next text he received came from someone thinner. She had the right look, but told him she charged $200 an hour.
He tweaked it again.
Live-in assistant wanted. $600 a week plus room and board. Female, between 30 and 35, 5’4” to 5’6”, 120 to 130 pounds, athletic, redhead, blue eyes. No sex or escorts. Manual labor. Serious inquiries only. Text picture.
Two hours passed before the next reply. Her hair was too dark, but that could be fixed. Nose a bit long to be conventionally attractive. Some blemishes.
But, maybe… with make-up…
Fabler set up an interview for that evening. She showed up at the house at three minutes after six.
“You the guy with the ad?”
“I’d like to conduct the interview on the porch.”
“What kind of job is it?”
“Can you do fifty push-ups?”
“Sure.”
“Show me.”
She faltered at eighteen. He dismissed her.
Three more texts that night. Apparently, no sex or escorts was code for I want to hear from escorts, so Fabler had to tweak the wording again.
He had to get this right.
He had to find the right girl.
And fast.
May 30, 2017 ○ 1:51pm
A good knife was expensive.
Ten good knives were very expensive.
Besides the money from the wrongful conviction settlement, Fabler had other cash hidden in the house. Rainy day money he’d never told Lori about.
He let the guilt pound him as he leaned over the display case, considering his next purchase. Fabler had already picked out two Cold Steel 62NCX Espada folding knifes with 7-1/2” blades and aluminum bolsters. The Espada was big and heavy enough to be swung like a machete. Since the KRISS model he sought couldn’t effectively accommodate a bayonet, this was the next best thing. And because it folded, it saved backpack space.
Fabler had also chosen two Paragon SEAL automatic knives with 440c stainless steel drop point blades and 6061-T6 anodized handles that could break a skull; two Max Venom Karambite neck knives with lanyards and form-fitting plastic sheaths, meant to be hung upside and released with a firm tug; two Boker A-F Feuerzauber daggers with double-edged, fixed blades, rosewood handles, and ankle sheaths, and two Victorinox XLT Swiss Army Knives, complete with fifty tools ranging from screwdriver sets to tweezers to chisels.
Next up, tomahawks. Something sharp, with a heavy blade and a spike on the back.
He examined a few models before choosing the Winkler Knives II Combat Axe. It had a maple handle, a partial paracord wrap, and weighed a respectable twenty-two ounces.
Fabler bought two.
Doubles of everything.
The total price, with 6.5% Kansas sales tax, was a hair under three thousand dollars. The dealer threw in a diamond whetstone.
Fabler paid cash.
Fabler had a lot of blood money. Plenty left.
Which was good, because he had plenty to buy.
July 7, 2017 ○ 9:21am
“What’s in this thing?”
“Bricks.”
The applicant looked the part—bright red hair, blue-eyes, cute in a perky, cheerleader kind of way—but she asked too many questions.
“And you’re going to time me, running around your house, wearing a backpack full of bricks?”
“You have thirty seconds.”
She left the backpack on the porch and drove away.
Fabler watched the forest swallow her up.
July 18, 2017 ○ 1:11pm
Fabler hadn’t held a gun in years. He had one in the house that Lori never knew about; a loaded .38 Colt he kept with his gold stash, under the floorboards.
The Colt wouldn’t suit his purpose. For that, Fabler needed multiple guns.
He had a range bag full of cash to buy them.
Walking among the seller booths at the gun show felt strange. Almost forbidden. It reminded Fabler of being fifteen years old and attempting to buy a Penthouse Magazine at the local mall’s Waldenbooks.
He’d gotten away with it.
He stopped at a table selling Glocks; reliable semi-automatic handguns with polymer frames. Tough to break. Hard to jam.
He bought two Glock 21 Gen 4s, ten extra thirteen round magazines, and four hundred rounds of 45 ACP full metal jacket 230 grain ammo.
Eighteen hundred in cash changed hands.
More blood money.
Fabler also asked the seller about KRISS Vectors.
“My buddy, Hondo, is selling those at booth thirty-eight. Fine weapon. You know it accepts Glock mags?”
Fabler gave him a look. The dealer grinned, baring chaw-stained teeth. “A’course you knew. Happy hunting, brother.”
Before stopping by booth thirty-eight, Fabler found a woman selling Charter Arms Pitbulls. The snub-nosed, five shot revolvers were one of the few on the market that used .45 A.M..
In a combat situation, when more than one firearm was involved, the interchangeability of ammunition could mean the difference between life and death. Weapons often got lost or damaged. Trying to determine the caliber of loose rounds during a firefight, or when unable to see, was potentially fatal.
Twelve hundred dollars later, two Pitbulls went into Fabler’s backpack, tucked away in felt-lined pockets.
As Fabler went to search for Hondo at booth thirty-eight, he was distracted by a display for some odd-looking derringers. They were about the size and shape of his wallet, rectangular and flat. He asked about them.
“DoubleTap Defense. No hammers, double barrel, double action.”
He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a .45?”
“Yeah. Barrels can also be switched out to 9mm. Holds two in the spouts, and two spare rounds in the grip.”
“I’ll take two of them in forty-five ACP.”
“Do you also want the 9mm barrels?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
He gave the man five hundred dollars, then went to go find the Vectors.
11:23pm
Fabler had the dream again.
Lori staring at him, her blue eyes wide with terror, holding a gun. But without any ammo.
The light around them, blinding. Otherworldly.
Fabler with his rifle, sighting on her head.
He woke up, sobbing, just as he pulled the trigger.
THE WATCHER ○ July 19, 2017+ ○ 2:15am
It is difficult to keep track of all the Boolean variables.
But the Watcher has a trick.
He goes back to the same well.
One does not have to find every drop of water on the planet.
One only needs to return to the location where water was once procured, and it is likely there will be more.
He watches his subject.
His target.
It makes him think of the Experiment.
The Watcher leaves the monitors, glances at the cage on the wall, and walks the hallway, coming to the cell containing the Experiment.
He speaks through the cell door.
“You are magnificent.
“So beautiful.
“So unique.
“So grotesque.”
The Experiment screams, several times.
&nbs
p; “Life is pain. Pain is life. At least you still live.”
The Watcher knows that morality is a handicap.
The universe is based on science, not morality. Science is fact.
Arbitrary subjective values are weaknesses.
Logic, numbers, and data are strengths.
But the Watcher is smart enough to wonder if he is motivated by more than cold calculations and hard probability.
Because as he stares at the Experiment, struggling in its chains, the Watcher becomes excited.
“You have no idea of your true purpose.
“You would not believe me if I told you.
“You could not possibly even understand.”
The Watcher denies he is influenced by base emotions.
Even if it is a cold, hard fact that he is aroused by pain.
GRIM ○ July 19, 2017 ○ 11:33am ○ 1500464003
Former Woodland Heights Officer Colin “Grim” Pilgrim couldn’t tell where the hangover ended and the old pain began. He peeked open crusty eyes, and from the sunlight spilling in through the slits in the blinds, judged it to be around noon. His mouth tasted like gym socks. With every exhalation he could smell stale booze, and could practically see alcohol vapors in his halitosis.
Grim sat up on his couch and stared at the floor. An empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a framed picture stared back at him. The glass in the picture frame had cracked. Grim couldn’t remember when that happened. Last night? Last week?
He thought:
Grim grunted, reaching for the frame. He’d memorized every pixel, from the yellow wings of the butterfly in Lori’s red hair , to how one pocket of his jean shorts was turned inside out, revealing a hole. Summer camp, the grammar school years. They’d lost a three-legged race, and were showing off their green participation ribbons.
He set the picture on the cocktail table, then hunted around for his cell phone, finding it on the floor. The battery whimpered, close to death. Grim tapped the security app and paged through the different cameras.
What Happened To Lori - The Complete Epic (The Konrath Dark Thriller Collective Book 9) Page 2
