Blood of Others (21 page)

At the Timberrock Hotel,
snuggled in the
sweet-scented alpine slopes of the Rocky Mountains in Banff, Alberta, Canada,
Anna Clausner had been roused from a deep sleep by thudding and muffled cries
coming from the adjacent room.

“This is unacceptable, Bill.”

Her husband had also been
awakened. “Give it a few minutes. It will stop.”

Anna, a recently retired second
violinist with the Philadelphia Orchestra, groaned. William Clausner, a
historian specializing in sculpture at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine
Arts, was an unusually patient man, but after several long moments, the noise had
not subsided and he and his wife could no longer tolerate it.

The red digits on their luxury
suite clock showed 3:07 A.M. William Clausner, blinked, rolled to his side,
lifted the phone’s handset on his night stand, squinted, then pressed the
button for the front desk.

“Front desk. How may we help
you?” said a young female voice.

“We have been awakened by a
dreadful racket coming from the adjacent room to our right.”

“We’ll take care of it right
away, Mr. Clausner.”

Located at the base of Sulphur
Mountain, the resort’s design harmonizes with its surroundings. It’s common to
see deer and elk from your window, which opened to a majestic view of eternal
alpine forests, jade-colored rivers and the snow-capped Rockies. Ever since
Anna Clausner saw a travel special on CNN, it had been her dream to visit. But
this tumult.

What the devil was going on in
there?

Anna went to the bathroom for a
sleeping pill. Bill had resumed reading his paperback thriller, a break from
the art history texts he usually studied. He was exercising his usual
consideration of using his tiny book light so as not to disturb his wife. Anna
returned to bed, nestling her back to his, gazing through their large window at
the mountain peaks, silhouetted against the sapphire night sky, coming to the
conclusion that the splendor of the setting had gotten the better of passionate
young lovebirds in the next room.

Eugene Vryke was in the next
room.

Alone. Wrestling death.

He had been sleeping when it
attacked. Charge after charge of pain exploding in his brain, jolting him to
the floor as he struggled to crush his pillow down his throat to silence his
agony, groping in the darkness for his small plastic case of medication.

The vials. Injection. I need
--

Don’t cry out.
Biting his
tongue. Reaching, feeling the plastic case, tremoring, a spasm rocketing the
case out of reach across the carpet to the bathroom.
No!
Vryke moaning,
crawling, standing, supporting himself on the walls. Wild spasms kicking inside
of his skull.
The case! Find the case!
Room spinning. Floor liquid.
Catching himself on the counter, doorknob, toilet, tub, light switches, hands
going everywhere.
The case! There!
Opening it. The gun-handled
hypodermic. The vials blurring, hands trembling.

“At the advent of an episode,
make an injection.”

How could he do this? Was it too
late? No. He squeezed the case. No. Please. Feeling the cold tiles of the
bathroom floor. Sitting on the floor he was forcing his body between the tub
and toilet, wedging himself, squeezing himself. His arms shaking. Pushing them
tight between the porcelain, the needle glinting, quivering, against the tiny
rubber membrane of the vial, cupping his hand over it, piercing the vial,
drawing in the clear medication, concentrating hard to ensure the measure was
accurate…

“You must not exceed it. To do
so, would prove immediately fatal.”

Did he know he was shouting now,
pounding his head against the tub -- knocking at his door. Someone there.

“Sir? Is everything all right.
Sir?”

Pulling his lips together,
harnessing the pain, humming now, gripping the needle, moving it toward his
skull

“Sir? Do you need anything?”

The needle touching his skin at
the critical point behind his ear under his jawbone.

“Please open the door, sir.”

The hypodermic flashing,
quivering. His free hand rising to steady it, using all his strength to wedge
himself to stillness.

“Relief should be
instantaneous.”

Holding his breath. Squeezing the
handle in one rapid motion. The medication flowing cool in his veins. Water
dousing an inferno. It was wonderful. Calming. Glorious. Inhaling, the oxygen
relaxing his strained muscles, tension retreating.

Death defeated.

For now.

“Sir?”

Vryke slipped on a hotel robe
bearing its insignia above the left breast. Without disengaging the security
bar, he opened the door a crack.

A uniformed hotel staff member is
standing in the carpeted hallway at the door. A red-haired man in his twenties.
Neat brush cut. A fullback’s neck. Strong muscular build. Height matching
Vryke’s.

“Sir.” Voice courteous, low. His
eyes taking the usual subtle stock of Vryke’s scars. “We’ve had calls about a
disturbance. Is there anything we can do for you?”

“No. Thank you. It’s my sister,
who dropped by to visit. She has epilepsy.” Concern crept onto the younger
man’s face as he mentally repeated
epilepsy
. Vryke’s voice is a whisper
as he said, “She’s had a spell, but she’s fine now. Resting. I apologize for
inconveniencing anyone.”

“Would you like medical attention
arranged, sir?”

“That won’t be necessary. Wait.”
Vryke disappeared, then returned to pass a folded twenty dollar bill through
the crack. “Thank you for your kind concern. We’re fine.”

The man closed his hand on the
money. “Thank you, sir.”

Vryke stayed at the door, hearing
him pad down the hall to the elevator. Then he switched off his room lights and
went to the cushioned chair he had placed before the windows. He sat in the
dark, staring at the mountains, unable to sleep.

He set one of his computers on
his lap, the screen glowing on his face. With a click he opened a hidden file.
A clear video recording began with a tour of Belinda’s empty apartment.

Then Belinda alone at the café,
waiting, looking directly at the camera as it zooms in, tightening on her face,
cutting away, then the swans gliding on the pond in the park, Belinda, alone on
the bench, walking alone in the park, then to the theatre. Belinda is alone
waiting for her order at the snack bar. Vryke is standing almost beside her,
looking for chocolate covered almonds but touching and buying nothing. He turns
to her, smiles, starting a conversation saying:
“I think Franco Zeffirelli’s
adaptation of the story is the best on film, don’t you?”

Surprised, Belinda turns to
him, less than two feet away now. The microscopic camera lenses hidden in
Vryke’s thick-framed glasses capture her face while the pin-head-sized
microphones record her voice, transmitting the data to his home-built miniature
digital recording system in his shirt pocket.

“Yes.” A smile. “It’s very
good.”

“The world’s favorite young
star-crossed lovers.”

The clerk is oblivious. Her
boyfriend hates her new tattoo. She had been arguing with him on the phone,
keeping them waiting.

“Yes.” Belinda pays for her
popcorn and soda, a tiny measure of unease rising.

Vryke knows he is a hideous
stranger to her but she is a hurtful liar and he is fulfilling their destiny,
resisting a sneer when he says wistfully, “Star-crossed lovers together forever
in death. No one can interfere with destiny.”

“I suppose.” Belinda smiles, a
drop of sadness in her eyes then leaves, vanishing into the darkness.

Vryke had taken his time, waiting
before following her. The theater had been empty. Just the two of them. The
movie’s title filled his laptop screen. Vryke had waited until the film began
before taking a seat behind her without making a sound. Here now was a rear
profile of Belinda weeping, her glistening face bathed in screen light, now a
few seconds of Vryke’s face, then a metallic flash, swift and terrible.

You were The One, Belinda.
Destined to share eternity with me. But you betrayed me with a lie. Now you are
alone forever. A hopeless romantic. A failed candidate. At least I gave you
what you wanted. I ended your pain.
Vryke closed the file and added it to
the others.

He had been sloppy with Belinda.
His condition was weakening his thinking. Immediately after their meeting in
the theatre, Vryke checked out of his hotel to catch the next flight to
anywhere. Leave as fast as possible. He had arrived at the airport, scanned the
list of departures.
Calgary.
He had just enough time to purchase a
full-fare ticket and board a direct flight. Good. It was his pattern to never
return the same way he departed. Within several hours of meeting Belinda
Holcomb, Vryke had been two time zones and half a continent away, driving a
rented midsize sedan west toward the Rocky Mountains to Banff, where blending
in with tourists from around the world would be easy. But the clock was ticking
on him.

It was critical he return to the
United States. He must slip back into America undetected. He had been remiss,
was surely leaving a clear trail. He had always operated on the assumption that
he
had
overlooked something. Because he was dying, he was fallible. But
he knew that he was so far ahead of any police agency that he need not draw
fire by intruding on their computer systems. As tempting as it would be, it
would be a fatal move, for it would attract attention, more than he could
handle right now. Tonight’s convulsive event had underscored that. Once more,
he had felt death’s hot breath as its jaws opened to take him.

He had to get back to the U.S.
safely. Vryke switched on the desk lamp to study his map. He had a plan. It was
workable. He studied the sports and travel sections of the Vancouver
newspapers, then his maps. He conducted more research on-line. If he took his
time driving through the mountains to Vancouver, his plan would work and he
would be back in the U.S. without a hitch. Forgiveness awaited him there.

She awaited to wash away his
sins, purify his soul and accompany him into immortality.

Pure love can defeat any darkness.

Vryke clicked on the file
containing the false ones. So many. He looked at their names, remembering their
meetings, their faces, their eyes, and their lies. Vryke gazed to the night sky
at the glittering constellations suspended over the mountains, adrenaline
surging through him in the aftershock of his seizure.

A vision was coming.

His mind became a hallucinatory
maelstrom.
Their faces.
The vision was coming.
Record it. Capture the
vision. They must know.
He reached for his leather bag, his anatomy
dissecting kit, selecting the razor scalpel, slicing the fingertips of his
right hand, his blood dripping as he raised his hand to the wall.
Capture
the vision. Show them your destiny.
All those lonely lives lived in vain.
Alas, now each of them would serve as the stars Vryke needed to write his
eternal message in the heavens. Soon, very soon, every human being on earth
would know his name.

Forever.

In his San Francisco
apartment, Wyatt did not
hear the staccato hip-hop bass throbbing from the low riders prowling the
Mission as night fell.

Laboring on his police laptop, he
was consumed by Iris Wood’s case, dissecting her Internet account information
which he had obtained from her ISP. But it seemed everything he had tried over
the last few days had dead-ended. At this point Wyatt was looking for any trace
of communication in which someone tried to lure Iris Wood into a meeting, or a
telephone call, or into revealing something personal, like a home or work
address, financial information, anything threatening, harassing, an invitation
to exchange graphic photographs or violent fantasies, or to have a sexual
encounter. So far, Wyatt had found nothing like that in Iris Wood’s travels.

What if our guy was smarter
than your garden-variety head case?

She had employed scores of user
names. He was finding a new one with every new site she had visited. He
couldn’t be sure he had all of them. The muscles in his neck were knotted now.
His eyes were sore.

Was he even certain her killer
was someone she had met on-line?

No.

The whole Internet angle was just
another line of investigation. But until he had learned more about the on-line
life Iris Wood had lived, or until Sydowski collared her killer, Wyatt could
not let them rule it out. Or let Sydowski get in his way if he managed to pull
something significant from her computer. Especially after her home system had
wiped out his disk. What was up with that? He was counting on Gricks at the
Livermore Lab. Maybe the old hippie would enlighten him on how to pursue the
case, or give him some ideas on how to have another go at Iris Wood’s PC. Maybe
he should just ship it off to CART in San Diego, let the FBI perform surgery on
the thing. Man, he could sure use some sort of lead on this.

At least Lieutenant Gonzales was
keeping an open mind about it, telling Wyatt to keep going. Find whatever he
could find. Or rule out what he could rule out. Sydowski seemed indifferent.
Playing the hard-ass because of Reggie.

Wyatt got up, pulled a beer from
his refrigerator, plopped on his sofa, catching the sirens and salsa music
riding through the window on the cool breezes, remembering gunshots, the woman,
the kid, Reggie shouting.

He had to make it right with
Reggie. If it was the last thing he did.

Wyatt realized that it was the
first time since the shooting that he had allowed that thought into his mind.
Now he actually believed he was going to do it, actually felt strong enough to
do it. Where was that coming from?

Olivia. It had to be her. The
other night when she took his hand, after he had told her everything, it had
felt right. After he put his cards on the table, laid out his sorry situation,
she had told him,
“I believe you”.

Wyatt swallowed some beer, almost
smiling at the feeling that maybe Olivia had just lowered him a ladder so he
could climb out of his dark pit. Boy, things had changed. Hey, he was going to
her place for dinner  --

Knocking on the door. Wyatt’s
eyes went to his gun in a lockbox on a dresser shelf. More knocking.

“Ben?” The male voice was
familiar.

“Who is it?”

“Reed. Tom Reed.”

Wyatt snapped the locks, half
opening the door. “Why are you here?”

“May I come in?”

Wyatt glanced over Reed’s shoulder
at the cars on the street.

“I came alone, Ben, and in my own
car. No billboards.”

“What do you want?”

“A few minutes to talk.”

“About?”

“Want to do this here, or can I
come in? You might find this useful.”

Reed had treated him fairly in
the
Star’s
reporting of Reggie’s case. Then there was that one night,
after his fiancée had moved out. Wyatt was drunk in some Tenderloin hellhole.
Reed was there meeting some sleazoid source, had spotted Wyatt, seen what was
happening. Reed had taken him out of the bar before damage was done. Taken him
back to his apartment so he could sleep it off.

Wyatt figured he owed him for
saving his ass that night. He surrendered the door. “Fine. Help yourself to a
cold beer.”

Reed took a soda from the fridge,
popping the top, turning a kitchen chair backward, making an obvious gesture of
noticing Wyatt’s laptop.

“Did I interrupt some computer
work there, Ben?”

“No. Why are you here?” Wyatt
said from the sofa.

“Iris Wood. You’re on her case.”

“I am a member of the team on her
case. I know nothing, and you know I don’t leak. It’s Sydowski’s murder. He’ll
tell
you
more about it than he’ll tell me and you know why.”

“I figured as much. Friends of
mine at the Hall tell me he’s keeping you away from the action.”

“Everybody has their assignments.
It all goes on a need-to-know basis. I can’t tell you anything.”

“No, pal, I’m going to tell you
something, Maybe you know it, maybe you don’t, okay?”

“If it makes your day, go ahead.”

“Did you know Walt is requesting
details on similar unsolved homicides across the country? To me it looks like a
traveler with a potentially huge body count. I can see by your eyes that he
didn’t tell you because you’re working on that ‘need-to-know’ basis.”

“Where are you getting this?”

“I made a lot of calls. Lots of
’em. I don’t need Sydowski’s permission.” Reed took a big swallow of soda. “I’m
lucky that way.”

“It’s routine to look for common
factors in similar unsolveds. Make queries. What you’re telling me is
standard.”

“Sure. Right. Uh-huh. Talk to
Bill Sample.”

“Why? Who’s he?”

“Phoenix homicide. The primary on
an unsolved there. Elinor Snell, aged thirty-three, worked as a tax clerk for
the state. Single, lonely. Found several months ago in the trunk of her car in
a Phoenix mall parking lot.
The lid opened, as if she were on display.
From what I understand, Elinor Snell could have been Iris Wood’s sister, lived
the same kind of life, died the same kind of death. Loved her computer. Get
where I’m going, Ben?”

“You talk to Sample?”

“Not yet.”

“So where you getting this?”

“You know I don’t give up
sources. I made a lot of calls and have found a lot of fairly recent unsolved
homicides similar to Iris Wood’s.” Reed pulled his notebook from his rear
pocket, flipped through pages, reading. “Jen Schnieder in Dallas, Clay Farrell
is the detective on her murder. Anita Erwin in Detroit, Lupe Vargas in Miami,
Amy Finch in Cincinnati, Kathy Soran in Chicago, a few more.”

“So why are you telling me this,
Reed?”

“I’ve poked around. I think
Sydowski’s looking for something in most of these cases. You may know this, but
I suspect he’s got some key hold-back that could be a common denominator.
You’re a detective, you know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t. Not specifically. It’s
routine to compare. So again, why are you telling me this?”

“Here’s my theory. Iris Wood’s
murder is just too bizarre to be a stand-alone homicide. Her killer’s out
there. He’s smart. He could be a cop, ex-cop, or poses as a cop. Whatever. I’m
convinced there is something huge at work here. I’ve done some preliminary
checking with a lot of sources across the country. I’m going to start digging,
really digging. And if anyone wanted to help me further, well, I’d be willing
to trade information they can’t get, or might not be
assigned
to
pursue.”

Wyatt swallowed some beer. His
eyes never leaving Reed’s.

“Sooner or later, some reporter
somewhere is going to bust this story wide open.”

“And it just has to be you,
Reed?”

“This story is already costing
me. My wife is at the end of her rope with me. Zach, our son, has got some sort
of allergy and the doctors can’t tell us what it is. It’s creating some stress
at home. She wants me to quit the paper. I just can’t. My editor is Clyde
Brader, remember him?”

“Asshole.”

“Always been my rival. Never got
over my Pulitzer nomination. Now he’s my boss. Wants the pleasure of seeing me
fail so he can fire me.”

“So what are you trying to tell
me, Reed, this is all personal for you?”

“Iris Wood’s murder is my story.
I am paying heavily for it and I ain’t gonna lose it. I gotta go. ” Reed
snapped a page from his notebook listing the victims, placed it on Wyatt’s
kitchen table, then went to the door. “Like I said, I’m willing to trade, or
‘discuss theories’. Thanks for hearing me out, Ben. See you around.”

After Reed left, Wyatt studied
the names on the torn strip of lined reporter’s notebook paper. They were
printed in Reed’s neat script. Wyatt finished his beer and went on-line to the
newspapers and information data banks, pulling up what public information he
could on the cases. All were single women who lived quiet lives. All their
bodies had been displayed in some fashion -- mannequin factory, open trunk,
abandoned meat-processing plant. In some cases, the women were described as
homebodies who spent time on-line. Wyatt thought. Was Sydowski comparing
something? Did he have something?

Reed’s list was a good list. It
gave him something to work with. More than what Sydowski had given him. The
cases on it fit with what happened to Iris Wood. It seemed Reed was on to
something, had the inside track. Wyatt looked at the Phoenix case. Detective
Bill Sample’s name and telephone number were listed next to Elinor Snell.

Should he call him?

No. He had no authority. What if
Sydowski
was
working a critical hold-back angle and found out? Given
that Sydowski already wanted to take his head off, Wyatt thought, calling
Phoenix would be an error.

Wait a minute.

The articles in the
Republic,
said Elinor had liked to chat on-line. He could try finding her friends on the
Internet. He might be able to find an e-mail address for her. He could throw
her e-mail address out there or search for it in some of the places where Iris
Wood had traveled. What if Phoenix was doing something, or the FBI, or some
other force? He had to be careful. Damned careful.

Wyatt’s keyboard clicked as he
began searching the Internet for a lead, any lead, into the cases of women
murdered across the country.