SKELETON

by Peter Parkin

  He threw his suitcase onto the bed, and then promptly felt his feet being pulled out from underneath him. Howard hit the floor hard, right smack on his rear end. He feared that he'd broken his tailbone.

  He watched as a figure dressed in black crawled out from underneath his bed, a balaclava covering his face.

  Howard panicked. "What...the fuck...do you want? Who...are you?" He tried to struggle to his feet, but the man leaped on top of him and rammed a finger into his throat. Howard choked, but managed to muster up enough strength to hit the man back with a hard fist to the side of the head. It barely registered.

  The dark figure grabbed his hand and snapped his wrist back in a direction it was never intended to go. Howard heard the crack of his wrist-bones and the pain shot right up to his eyeballs. He screamed, until a fist slammed into his mouth sending at least two teeth flying.

  The figure finally spoke. "Tell me, Colonel, when you saw me crawl out from underneath the bed, did it remind you of some other creepy crawlers?"

  Howard just stared back at the sinister figure, choosing to say nothing.

  It was best to say nothing.

  The figure spoke again. "I want your magnetic access pass for the lab on Nevis."

  Howard had been trained by the CIA—trained to resist interrogation. But he hadn't had the opportunity to put his training to the test yet, never having served even one single day on a battlefield despite his ripe age of fifty. Now was the time to see if he had what it took. He remained silent as he had been taught to do.

  When he saw an extended index finger racing toward his forehead he decided in that instant that his assailant had perhaps taken the same training course as he had. He clearly had no patience.

  The impact felt like someone had just hit him lightly with a hammer. But he felt the finger pull back at the last second, lessening the power of the hit. It pounded him but it felt to Howard that with the initial speed and power of the finger it could have gone right through his brain if the man had wanted it to. Howard wanted to scream again but decided that he might lose more than just his teeth this time.

  He remained silent.

  With the speed of lightning the man grabbed his arm with the broken wrist and snapped the elbow backwards as easily as breaking a matchstick. This time Howard couldn't control himself. He started to cry, the pain was so intense. And he felt a puddle forming in the crotch of his pants as his bladder protested on its own.

  "Colonel, I have all night. Unless you want me to turn you into a creepy crawler, I suggest you give me the access card. You'll be flopping like an octopus on dry land within just a few minutes. Your call, hero."

  Howard gave up. There was no point to this, and he knew he was no match for this man. He sputtered, "It's in...the wall safe...over there. Combination...digital...9/30/77."

  Although he couldn't see his face, he could tell by his voice that the man was smiling. "Now, isn't that cute? You guys are priceless. That combination is the exact date when your predecessors decided to turn off the communication arrays on the surface of the moon. Wow—so cute. Hey, those things were turned off so that there would be no signals to earth indicating that you nuked our moon. Right, Howard?"

  Howard decided once again to shut up. Until he saw the forearms slamming inward towards the sides of his head. He flinched. The arms stopped an inch from his skull. The figure waited.

  "Yes...that's right! You're right, you're right! Leave me alone!"

  Howard watched as the man withdrew the card from the safe. Then he walked with a confident swagger back to Howard's prone figure and pulled packing tape out of his back pocket. He expertly wrapped him up like a cocoon, including his face, leaving only his nostrils free.

  The phones were then pulled out of the wall, flung in the air and smashed with the thrust of an index finger. A finger then went through his computer monitor, and a fist smashed his keyboard and CPU to pieces. As a final act of personal invasion, the man pocketed Howard's cellphone. Howard's life was on that cellphone.

  Then the stranger was gone.

  *****

  Travis Wilkinson strolled along lazily, briefcase in hand. Another tiring day at the office, but with his brilliant mathematical mind he knew he made it all look easy. He knew they all envied him, and he loved seeing the surprised looks on their faces when he told them about his old life, his years in prison. Everyone loved a success story, a rags to riches story, and his was one for the record books.

  He loved this walk every day. Coming home to his lovely wife, Cynthia, and his darling little two-year old, Mikela. It made working for a living worthwhile, made life worthwhile. Travis loved his life now.

  Only two blocks to go and he would get the hugs and kisses he deserved. It warmed his heart and he almost choked up just thinking about it.

  Suddenly, he choked up for real. An arm was around his neck, yanking him off his feet and backwards into an alley. The strong assailant dragged him towards a doorway, then kicked it open with a black shoe attached to black trousers.

  He felt himself being shoved into the room, and then a powerful impact to his lower extremities sent him flying into the air, landing him hard on his face. Travis heard the door slam shut behind him, then a dim light above him was flicked on. He saw his treasured briefcase lying a few feet away and for one strange moment he caught himself thinking about all the work he'd brought home with him.

  The man was tall, but not too tall, dressed all in black with a balaclava covering his face. Travis knew all about balaclavas. He had worn them many times during his previous life.

  The man moved fast now, yanking Travis up from the floor by his armpits and flinging him into a single wooden chair. It almost tipped over but Travis stopped it with his foot. He could see that another chair was set up directly across from his. The assailant sat down and faced him.

  "Does this all look kinda familiar, Travis? Do you remember that night twenty years ago?"

  Travis nodded.

  "Sorry I couldn't use the same alley as you used. Progress, eh? It's all condominiums now. That precious alley and warehouse are gone now. Such a shame because I would have loved to have had you walk down that exact memory lane. Oh, well—this will have to do."

  Travis watched the man pull a monstrous pistol out of his pocket, spin the cylinder, and ram the barrel up against his head.

  "This pistol's cylinder can hold eight bullets, Travis. Eight very big bullets. This is a magnum. I think you know what a magnum can do to a head, eh? You've heard, I'm sure."

  Travis was in shock.

  "Say something, asshole!"

  "Yes...yes...I know what...it can do!"

  "Good—signs of life. I want you alive for a little while, Travis. We have a little game to play. You remember this game, don't you? Russian Roulette? You're pretty good at playing this game with other people, but maybe not so good at playing it yourself. We'll find out together, you and I."

  Travis saw his life flash in front of his eyes—both his old life and his new life. He wanted to cry. "Man, I'm so sorry. I've changed. I have a family now. They need me."

  "Tell someone who cares, Travis. Here's how this game is going to go. I'm going to start pulling the trigger. You're gonna hear the clicks if you're lucky. If you're unlucky, you won't hear anything. There are eight chambers, but there's only one bullet in this magnum. If you hear seven clicks, you get to live. Okay? You clear on the rules, Travis?"

  Travis found that his head was bobbing furiously, and his legs were numb.

  He wiggled his toes in his shoes but couldn't feel them against the leather.

  It was like there was sand in his throat and marbles in his mouth. "Hold your head still, Travis. I'm gonna start pulling the trigger. Ready?" First click. Travis bit his lip.

  Second click. Travis felt his knee fly up in the air.

  Third click. Travis peed in his pants.

  Fourth click. Travis shit in his drawers.

  Fifth click. Travis felt his left foot bounce on the floor.<
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  Sixth click. Travis felt his hair stand on end.

  Seventh click. Travis sighed with relief. He saw in his mind's eye Cynthia and Mikela walking toward him.

  "Well, how do you like that? You get to live, you lucky bastard."

  Travis watched as the man pulled the gun away from his head. He sighed again. "Thanks, man."

  "Oh, you're welcome, Travis. I'm true to my word. But I have one favor to ask of you before I leave."

  "Sure, anything man."

  The man in black pulled both sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows.

  "I want you to scratch me hard with both hands. I want you to scratch with each finger of each hand, dig deep, draw blood."

  Travis looked at the masked face. "Are you a sicko, man?"

  "Yes, I am, Travis. Scratch me now or I'll change my mind about that bullet in the chamber."

  Travis shrugged, leaned forward and scratched. Scratched so hard that the blood was flowing down the man's powerful wrists, dripping onto the floor.

  "Are you happy now, dude?"

  "Yeah, I'm happy now, Travis. But there's one more thing I want you to do, but only if you think it's the decent thing to do. The right thing to do. Penance for all the terrible things you've done, the lives you've ruined that you've never been held accountable for. And I'm going to trust you. Because I think you're now a reformed man."

  "I am, I am. But what the hell is it you want me to do?"

  The man put the magnum into Travis' hand. "There's one bullet left. I want you to make the right decision. Put the gun up against your head and pull the trigger. You owe it to your victims, Travis. You owe it to your God."

  Travis couldn't believe what he was hearing. He now had the gun in his hand with one bullet left, blood and skin from the man's forearms all over his fingers, and the idiot expected him to now just pull the trigger and kill himself? How more bizarre could this night get? The guy was crazy, no doubt. And Travis knew that the best thing to do with crazy people was to play along.

  "Sure, man. I'll do it. I need redemption." Travis had to fight hard to keep the snicker rising deep down in his throat from giving him away.

  The man in black nodded, rose from his seat, and started for the door. Travis raised the heavy gun, pointed it at the man's back and pulled the trigger.

  Click. Travis bit his lip again.

  The man in black stopped in his tracks and turned slowly to face him. "I heard that click, Travis. But the gun is pointed at me. Why is that?"

  Travis peed in his pants again. How could there be any pee left?

  The man in black strode toward him. Travis shit in his pants again.

  The man's hands were in the air now, poised, index fingers like daggers pointed at Travis' eyes.

  Just before the man in black made Travis' world go black, he heard him say, "This is for Alan Chambers."

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  "Jesus, I can't believe our luck! We have DNA this time!"

  Grant Folsom marched into Bart Davis' office, waving a file. Bill Charlton, who had been sitting in the guest chair sipping coffee, jumped up and reached out his hand.

  "Let me see that, Grant."

  Folsom handed him the folder and walked over to the coffee machine.

  He felt the adrenaline rushing through his veins with the realization that this long ordeal may finally be almost over. The Press was just about ready to release the story about a purported serial killer haunting the streets of Washington. And Grant knew that if he could answer that story with an announcement of his own—the identification and arrest of a suspect—he might just be able to save his job as Chief of Police.

  Bart walked around the desk and peered over Bill's shoulder, then immediately recoiled in horror. The photos of the victim were a shocking sight to see, Grant knew, and he found it slightly amusing watching the stunned look on the face of his colleague.

  Bill frowned as he scanned the pages of the file. "Is it possible that our perp has finally made a mistake?"

  Grant couldn't wipe the smile off his face. "Nobody's perfect, apparently not even our killer. It appears as if there was quite the struggle—skin and blood all over the victim's fingers and hands. In fact, he scratched the perp so deeply that there's quite a bit of skin under the fingernails. We have perfect DNA samples."

  Bill's gaze lingered on one page in particular. He scratched his forehead as he stared. "Grant, I'm reading that the victim has been identified as a Travis Wilkinson. Isn't he the guy who was suspected of being the leader of the gang who killed Chambers' father? I recall reading that name in Dennis' file."

  "Yep, that's the guy alright. And Chambers didn't identify him in the police lineup sixteen years ago. We always suspected that he knew we had the right guy, but for some reason he didn't come clean. I never talked to Dennis about that, but I was always puzzled about it."

  Bill chuckled. "You're so naïve, Grant. I'm not puzzled at all. If Dennis is indeed our vigilante serial killer, he obviously would have wanted Wilkinson free as a bird so he could exact his own revenge on him."

  Bart jumped in to the conversation. "Knock it off, Bill. You're getting way ahead of yourself once again. We have no hard evidence linking Dennis as the killer—and he's a good friend of mine, so I kinda resent you tarring him with that brush until we have something concrete."

  "You're being defensive, Bart. Look at these photos, for Christ's sake!" Bill waved them in Bart's face. "You've seen the research on Shaolin martial arts, and you've seen the photos of the other six victims who were found. The wounds are all similar, and consistent with what a Shaolin expert would be able to inflict. And Chambers is, without a doubt, a Shaolin expert."

  "That doesn't make him a killer."

  Bill glared at Bart. "No, but it puts him right at the top of the list of

  possible suspects. Unfortunately, there isn't a central registry of people who are experts at the art of Shaolin, but there should be. In the absence of a registry, however, we have a skilled expert right in our midst who has motive in not only the Wilkinson killing, but also in the disappearance of his secretary's ex-husband—plus, the nurse who was caring for Denny's mother. I mean, for the love of God, Bart, it's as obvious as the nose on your face." Bill chuckled sarcastically. "And your nose is pretty obvious, to be brutally honest with you."

  Grant took the file out of Bill's hand and opened it to the description of the wounds. "Bart, I tend to agree with Bill. The description of the wounds puts this victim as the work of the vigilante, without a doubt. And Dennis had an overwhelming reason to kill him, with this Wilkinson character having forced him to shoot his own dad. God, I can't imagine the pain of having to live with that for the last twenty years. I would have wanted to kill the guy too, to be perfectly honest. But look at this—it says here that the guy's eyeballs were basically disintegrated with blunt force through the eyes right into the brain. Then, to top it off, there was a finger-width hole right through the prick's forehead—a clean hole through the skull, again smashing through the brain. The result of these three penetrations? The brain turned to mush—so similar to the other six killings, it's uncanny."

  Bart shuffled his feet and looked down at the floor. "I know you guys think I'm just in denial because Dennis is an old friend, but it's not like that, really. I accept that this latest slaughter is the work of the vigilante, and I accept that Dennis had motive. But, let's face it; there are probably dozens of people who had motive to kill that scum. Sure, he may have turned his life around, but with the life he lived before prison, he must have left behind enemies galore. And I accept that Dennis had motive to kill his secretary's ex and his mom's nurse as well. But, to this day, those are still listed as disappearances, not murders."

  Bart continued, pacing back and forth in his office. "But there are no obvious motives for Dennis to have killed any of those six actual murder victims. And if we believe wholeheartedly in the concept of 'modus operandi,' for the three others that he did have motive in why would he have mad
e two of the bodies disappear and then leave this last one, Wilkinson, right out there for us to find? And with DNA all over him? Makes no sense at all—not consistent and not logical."

  Grant made a face. "Well, serial killers have been known to be inconsistent from time to time, even though I would agree that it's rare. And when they do it, it's usually to confuse the authorities and throw them off the trail."

  Bart scoffed. "This guy had no reason to do that—we've been confused right from the beginning on this case, and we were never really on his trail at all. We didn't have a clue. He had very little to worry about from us, I'm embarrassed to admit."

  Grant put his big arm around Bart's shoulders. "Well, if we do bring Dennis in, he will have a lot to worry about. And since he's a cop, you'll be in the thick of it—Internal Affairs will have to do the damage control with the media and convince them that we're giving this case fair and objective treatment. Our Chief of Detectives being a suspect in a vigilante serial killer case will be big news indeed, national news."

  "Have you already tried to arrest him?"

  "Not yet—we'll wait for the DNA testing. Should have the results later today. But we did try to contact him—by phone and in person. He doesn't seem to be around. Might have gone away for the weekend, or something. We'll nab him Monday if the tests prove us right, and if we can find a judge over the next two days who'll sign our warrant."

  Grant noticed that Bill seemed to avert his eyes at the mention of Dennis being absent from home. "Do you or your Pentagon cronies know something, Bill? Is there a reason why we can't find Dennis right now? Anything you care to share?"

  Bill Charlton shook his head. "Beats me—he's your guy. If I knew something, I'd tell you."

  Bart scowled. "Bullshit! I don't think you spooks would tell us anything. You guys have your own agendas. I have a gut feeling that you know every single move that Denny has made ever since our meeting here with him. You recall that meeting, don't you, Bill? The one that Denny ended by yanking you up by your tie and whispering a 'sweet nothing' in your ear?"