Game (39 page)

A toy store. That’s what he needed—a toy store. There had to be one nearby. After all, a random walk on the street revealed legions of baby carriages everywhere he went.

He picked up his phone to call 411 for the nearest toy store and stared at its screen for a moment, cogs and gears clicking in his imagination. It was a smartphone, right? Its various icons shined up at him. He’d used maybe two of them since getting the phone.

Howie. He would call Howie.

With a half hour still to go to the airport, Howie finally stopped checking the rearview mirror for the flashing lights and sirens of Lobo’s Nod’s finest.

“I think they believed me,” Connie said quietly.

“Would you really cut them off if they narced on you?”

“I don’t know.”

She had been quiet the whole way, arms folded over her chest, staring moodily out the window. He was trying to think of something very stupid and very funny to say—his usual tactic—when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Since his mom worried about her baby boy talking on the phone while driving, she’d installed a really kick-ass hands-free system in his car roughly ten seconds after he’d bought it, so at the same moment, a pleasant and very sexy robotic voice said, “Phone call. Jazz Matazz.” Howie had put Jazz into his contacts list that way because he liked the way the speakerphone said “Jazzmatazz.”

Connie perked up in the passenger seat for the first time
since they’d left her house. “Whatever you do—” she started, but Howie had already hit Answer.

“Jazz Matazz!” he cried out.

“Does that dumb thing still call me that?”

“Of course not. I was just funning with you.”

“What are you up to?”

Next to him, Connie shook her head wildly and cut her hands back and forth in the universal “No!” gesture.

“I’m driving Connie to the airport.”

“What?”

“Jesus, Howie!” Connie exploded.

“Connie,” Jazz said from the speakerphone, “where are you headed? Back here?”

“Yeah,” she said, glaring at Howie.

“Don’t.”

“Well, I need to—”

When Jazz spoke again, it was in a voice so cold and so commanding that for a moment Howie thought maybe Billy Dent had grabbed the phone at the other end. “Do
not
come to New York. This isn’t something we’re talking about. Just turn around and go home. Howie, I need your help with something.”

Howie risked a look over at Connie, whose eyes had grown wide with fury, her lips pressed together as if to keep from breathing out flames.

“Um… sure, man, but you should know—”

“I don’t know how to download apps on my phone,” Jazz said with peculiar urgency.

Howie laughed nervously. “Is that really an issue right now?”

“I need a specific one. I’m pretty sure it exists. Can you walk me through it?”

“Jazz, this is kinda—” To his right, Connie was now back in arms-over-chest mode, glaring through the window.

“Please!” from the speaker.

“Fine, fine. What do you need?”

He told him. Completely confused, Howie nonetheless explained how to locate and download the app in question.

“Thanks,” Jazz said. “You’re gonna turn around and go home now, right? I’m counting on you. And Connie? Con?”

Howie studied her grim posture. “Now’s not a real good time, buddy. From the looks of things, you won’t be getting laid for a long, long time.”

“Con, I know you can hear me. I get that you’re pissed. But I’m in the middle of some crazy stuff here, and at least knowing that you’re safe keeps me going. All right? I love you.”

There was silence on the line as he waited for her to say it back. When she said nothing, the line went dead.

“You could have talked to him,” Howie said after a few minutes.

“Did you hear that voice he used with me?” she asked. “He went all Billy on me. I won’t tolerate that.”

Howie signaled and shifted lanes.

“What are you doing?” Connie demanded. “Are you getting off the highway?”

“Well… yeah. You heard him. I’m gonna turn around and—”

“You’re doing no such thing.”

“But—”

“A butt is something I’m gonna kick if you keep this up,” Connie said. “He doesn’t know what’s going on here. I’m going to track down this mystery person and help him whether he wants it or not.”

Howie watched an exit ramp go by. He could always turn at the next one….

Oh, who was he kidding?

“At least call him. Tell him what’s going on.”

“When he’s like this? When he’s all crazy like this? No way.” She jabbed a finger at him and he flinched even though she didn’t actually touch him. “And
you
don’t call him, either. Once I’m on that plane, he can’t stop me. No one can. And if he knows I’m on it, he’ll freak out and get all distracted, and with everything that’s going on, being distracted could get him killed.”

“Fine. Fine.” The next exit, it turned out, was for the airport. Howie guided the car down the ramp. “But are you sure about this? It could be dangerous.” Even as he said it, Howie felt idiotic. A mysterious voice was seducing Connie into traveling to New York. Manipulating her. Of
course
it was dangerous. Either Billy Dent or someone like him was at the other end of that phone call. “Maybe you should just let the cops handle this.”

“What, the NYPD? They have their hands full already with the Hat-Dog Killer. This is personal. I’ll go to New York. Find this clue at JFK, then get to Jazz. Show him what we’ve got, what we know. In the meantime, just to be safe and cover all the bases…” She twisted around in the car seat and retrieved the lockbox from the backseat. “I want you to wait
until my flight is off the ground and then take this to the sheriff.”

“Got it. Will do. Sammy J and I will hold down the fort here in the Nod,” Howie promised.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Connie turning to stare at him. “What?” he asked defensively. He knew that look—it was Connie’s Guilt Glare, usually employed when he said or did something stupid or offensive or both. “What did I do?”

“What did you just say?” she asked, her tone insistent, with an undercurrent of panic.

“I said I’ll hold down the fort with Sam. We be keepin’ it one hundred, dawg. We’ll keep Gramma cool; we’ll check in with G. William to see if the cops learn anything else from that lockbox; we’ll—”

“No. Exactly. What did you say
exactly
?” Before he could recall his exact words, she filled him in: “You said ‘Sammy J and I.’ Sammy J.”

“Right. It’s just a nickname.” Howie signaled and pulled off the highway onto the access road that led to the airport. “It’s what they called her when she was a kid.”

“And doesn’t Sammy J sound like someone else we know?”

Traffic was light, so Howie risked taking his eyes off the road. Connie strained against her shoulder belt, leaning toward him intensely, staring as if she could burn the answer into him with her eyes. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “Why are you all freaked out all of a sudden? It’s just a nickname.”

“Sammy J.
J
,” she said, emphasizing the last letter.

The connection clicked. “Jesus, Connie. You think Sammy J is Ugly J? Just because they share an initial? That’s crazy.”

“I’ll tell you what’s crazy: Auto-Tuning your voice if there’s no reason to. Billy wouldn’t do it because I already know who he is. The only reason for someone else to disguise it—”

“Is if you know the voice already,” Howie interrupted. “But you’ve never met Sam.”

“Or to disguise your gender,” Connie told him. “And yeah, I’ve never met her, but I
might
. As long as she’s in town, staying at Jazz’s, the odds are I
would
meet her. And hear her voice.”

“That’s nuts,” Howie said in a tone that wasn’t convincing even to him.

“Who’s new to town who I haven’t met yet, but probably will at some point? Who’s the only person in this whole mess who would have a reason to disguise her voice from me?”

“You’re assuming a lot. I mean, Mr. Auto-Tune—”

“Or Ms. Auto-Tune.”

“—could be anyone. I mean, maybe he—or she,” he amended quickly, “is just worried that you’re recording your conversations. Or just doesn’t want you to be able to identify him or her by voice someday. Or…”

“You can keep throwing ‘or’ out there as much as you want, but face it—the most likely scenario is that it’s someone known to me. Or to us. Maybe that’s not one hundred percent guaranteed, but come on, Howie.”

Howie hated to admit it, but she had a point. And all he could think of, suddenly, was the photo album Gramma had showed him. The pictures of Sam as a little girl.
I was a late bloomer….

“We know Billy had a confederate out there,” Connie went on. “Someone who coordinated his escape from Wammaket. Someone who was in contact with the Impressionist. What if it was his sister?”

Howie shook his head. “No. I don’t buy it.”

“Because you want to sleep with her.”

“That’s beside the point. I don’t buy it because Sam
hates
Billy. You should see her when he comes up. She despises that guy. Jesus, she said in public that she would pull the lever if they executed him.”

“Yeah, and I just told my parents that I would never speak to them again if they called the cops on me. I sounded serious enough that they didn’t.”

Howie said nothing as he guided the car into the drop-off lane and stopped. “God,” he said at last. “Have I been macking on a serial killer’s right-hand man? Woman? Are there even… is there even such a thing?”

“I think so. Jazz mentioned one once. Some woman in England, I think. Sam could be a serial killer.”

“Watch it. That’s the mother of my illegitimate children you’re talking about.”

“Howie.”

“But really—what are the odds of a brother and sister serial-killing tag team?”

“Same parents. Same genetics. Same environment. I don’t know the odds, but it’s not impossible.”

“How do we find out? Do we just ask her?”

“Not a chance. There’s got to be some way to find out without confronting her directly.”

“I’ll ask Gramma,” Howie joked.

“Hell, what if she’s involved? I was thinking that before—what if she’s been faking all this Alzheimer’s crap, hiding in plain sight?”

“No way, Connie. Uh-uh. You haven’t been around her as much as I have. Trust me—the woman’s nuts. And not in the way
you
mean. Not in like an evil mastermind–slash–Hannibal Lecter kind of way. She’s completely off her rocker. Sometimes Jazz has to change her adult diaper, for God’s sake. You think she’s gonna go through that just to keep up a cover story?”

They sat in silent thought in the car, staring at each other until a horn honking from behind them brought them out of their reverie.

“Maybe I
should
stay here….” Connie said hesitantly, almost unwillingly.

“No. Go to New York. Figure out this bell thing. Get the other clue. This stuff is all connected. What’s happening in New York is connected to what’s happening here. You work the New York angle with Jazz and I’ll figure out what’s going on here.”

“Are you sure?” She was worried, that much was obvious. Howie didn’t blame her; he was worried, too. He sort of liked being alive. He also thought Sam was hot and it would really suck if she turned out to be crazy like her brother.

“Sure? No. But go.” He popped her lock and the horn from behind blared again. “You better get going. And for God’s sake, be careful! There’s crazy-bad juju going down.”

“Howie…”

“I’m serious, for once. Now go. It’ll be all right. I’m not as fragile as I look.”

“I know. That’s the problem—you’re
more
fragile.”

“This is true.” He leaned over impulsively and kissed her cheek. “Get out of here. You have a flight to catch.”

Once she was through security, Connie had to run for her plane, boarding right before the door closed. She apologized to her row mates and slid into her middle seat.

Was she doing the right thing? She had left Howie—Howie!—completely unprotected, with Gramma, who was crazy enough for any three people, and Samantha, who quite possibly could be crazy, too. Even though he’d encouraged her to go, was it the right thing to do?

She dug into her purse. Howie was right. Time to set aside pride (no matter how righteous) and anger (ditto) and call Jazz. See what he thought. Didn’t it make more sense for
him
to go to JFK, after all? Sure, it would be a distraction from the Hat-Dog Killer, but Howie was right—these cases were interconnected. It was
all
interconnected, as cables stretched from the past to the present, from Lobo’s Nod to New York, entangling and binding all of them: Jazz, Billy, Sam, Howie, the Hat-Dog Killer, the Impressionist, Connie herself, the victims…. She couldn’t untangle the knots just yet and see where they’d come from, but she knew they were all connected.

“Miss, no electronic devices,” a flight attendant said just as Connie hit the Call button under Jazz’s name.

“But—”

“Off, please. Now.” Said with a grim little smile that seemed to broadcast
Try me, sister
.

Connie ended the call before the first ring, then made a show of shutting down her phone. Now she had the entire flight to think about how she might have sent Howie to his death.