Side Effects: An FBI Psychological Thriller (15 page)

And then Jennings had asked him to join them for drinks at lunch. And he’d blown it. With just one incident—
one!
—all the lines of growth on the wall felt as if they’d been erased.

No. No, he couldn’t accept that.
Wouldn’t
accept it. The scene he’d made at the camera store at the mall. A real man wouldn’t have handled it that way. A real man would have…a real man would have…

Joe grimaced as though in pain. It was all he could do from slamming his fist down onto the bar.

What
would
a man have done? Punched the stoner-talking dude behind the counter? Stand his ground and call the stoner-talking dude’s bluff about calling the police? Maybe not even have been there to begin with? Kept his cool?

Oh God, how many times had he done this in his lifetime? I shoulda, I shoulda, I shoulda—

This time his fist did pound the bar. The bartender, a pretty but worn-looking woman, approached. “You okay, sweetie?”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah, I’m okay, uh…I’m okay, uh, sweetie—”
oh Jesus Christ!
“I’m okay…can I have another?”

The bartender turned and went to work on his drink.

One by one he was losing all he’d gained. Yesterday he wouldn’t have stammered when answering the bartender. He wouldn’t have been at a loss for a pet name, forced to repeat her own like a damn fool.

One by one…

No.

Goddammit
NO
.

The bartender brought his drink, a gin and tonic. Joe drained it in two long gulps.

No more tonic next time. Show her you’re a man.

“Another—” he said as he set the glass down with authority. “Hold the tonic.”

The bartender laughed and went to work on his new drink.

She’d laughed. At him or at his joke?

Your joke. Have another drink.

Though he wasn’t much of a drinker—it was the one thing he had trouble exorcising from the past—today Joe Pierce was going to change that. He would drink like

(
Dad
)

a man, and he would get a private dance like a man, and he would keep on going until today was but a mere hiccup, and the lines of growth on the wall reappeared one by one.

The bartender brought his drink. He took a big sip and dared wink a thanks at her, the funneling of gin into his virginal liver already giving him nerve.

She smiled back.

No doubt there—that smile was the real deal. He drained his gin and immediately ordered another.

Morris, eyes on the road, frowned as if I’d asked him a riddle. “Huh?”

“You were Superman back there.”

He now glanced at me with one eye. “You wouldn’t have done the same?”

“Physically? No.”

Now he risked taking both eyes off the road. His look said explain.

“You think I could have tossed that guy aside the way you did?” I said.

“You’d have hit him.”

Very true.

“Probably better you beat me to it then,” I said.

He chuckled.

“My heart breaks for that poor kid,” I said. “Hope you didn’t make things worse for him.”

He frowned again, although this frown wasn’t trying to solve a riddle—he got it. “Yeah…” he said. Then: “Shit.”

“Don’t sweat it, Tim. Guy was a bully. Sometimes bully’s need a proper dose of humiliation to gain perspective.”

“Hope so.” His hands were now fists on the wheel.

I decided to change course. “So where to now?”

“Don’t know. Wait somewhere and hope to hear from local PD about hits on support groups in the area, I guess.”

“And if we get nothing?”

“Hope the John Doe in upstate PA gets a name.”

“Why? So we can dig and confirm that he
was
afraid of being buried alive? Big whoop.”

“
Big whoop?
”

“I feel like we’re doing too much
getting to know you
; not enough
just get you
.”

Morris shrugged. “Gotta know your prey before you can hunt it efficiently.”

“All we do is hunt. It’d be nice to start trapping.”

Morris placed his one eye on me again, a raised eyebrow above it this time. “Why does it feel like we’ve switched demeanors all of a sudden?”

I leaned the side of my head against the car window, exhaled, and in a voice that sounded tired even to me, I said, “I’m just saying.”

“I wouldn’t mind if our guy went the way of Dahmer or Heidnik or Bundy,” he said.

I lifted my head off the window and looked at him.

“Gets careless and allows one to get away,” he said.

I placed my head back on the window. “Our guy’s too careful.”

He shrugged again. “Until he’s not.”

How many straight gins had he had? He didn’t know. What he did know was that he felt better. He’d watched the dancers doing their thing, soon built the nerve to tip them when they approached his seat. Most of them would spread their tits and ask him to place the tip between them before pressing them together, their cleavage swallowing up the cash. He liked that. After his umpteenth gin, he’d insisted on placing the tips in their panties. One of them really liked his request. She’d asked him if he wanted a private dance. He happily obliged.

Back behind the curtain in a small room now. They were alone, the stripper nude save for her panties. She gyrated before him, and soon, on him. They didn’t do that with just anyone, only real men.

“What’s that, sweetie?” she asked.

Had he said something?

“Huh?”

“What did you say?” she asked.

“Real man,” he managed.

She smiled and straddled him, grinding herself into his groin. “Yes, you are.”

“Yes, I am…” And then: “Say it.”

“You’re a
real
man,” she cooed.

“I’m no pussy mama’s boy…”

“No, you’re not, sweetie.”

He grinned, mumbled: “Not afraid of anything…”

“No, you’re not, sweetie.”

“No, I’m not, sweetie…” He let out a drunken giggle; he felt just fine about using their pet names back at them now.

She grinded harder, pressed her bare breasts into his face. He licked them. She leaned her torso away and wagged a playful finger at him. “No, no, sweetie,” she said.

He frowned. Why not? Didn’t she want him to?

“No pussy mama’s boy,” he slurred again. “Not afraid of anything.”

She smiled and turned on his lap, now facing away from him, grinding her ass into his groin. He reached up and around for her breasts. She caught his hands at the wrist and guided them back down.

Why not?

He reached up and around for her tits again, and again she guided him back down.

Why
not
?

She leaned back into him, resting the back of her head into his chest. Looking up at him with a patient smile she said, “Just the dance, sweetie.”

“It’s okay…it’s okay…I’m not afraid of anything, okay? Those other guys were, but
I’m
not, okay?”

She took her head off his chest and leaned forward, grinding her ass faster into his groin, hoping to finish him quickly.

He told her to face him again.

She did. Straddling him once more, patient smile wearing thin, she placed her hands on his shoulders, a strategic placement to block his probing hands at the source.

He cleared both arms away and showed her the palm of his right hand. “You see this? Not anymore…not anymore…”

The patient smile was wary now, the grinding slowing down, concern for her well-being superseding getting him off.

He gripped her ass tight and pulled her back in, picking up her slacking pace with his own determined thrusts upward. “Not anymore.” Thrust. “Not anymore.” Thrust. “Not anymore.” Thrust.

She started pushing against his chest in an effort to free herself. His grip on her ass tightened. He thrust harder, through gritted teeth said: “See?” Thrust. “
See?
” Thrust. “Don’t need you anymore, bitch.” Thrust. “Don’t need you anymore, bitch.” Thrust. “Don’t need you anymore, bitch.”

She scratched and clawed. “
Get off of me, freak!
”

Freak!!!???

He grabbed her neck and slammed her to the floor, keen to choke away her audacity against his manhood. “
THEY were freaks! THEY were freaks! I fucking showed them that THEY were the freaks, not me! Not me, you fucking bitch! NOT ANYMORE! NOT ANYMORE!! NOT ANYMORE!!!
”

A powerful hand snatched the hair on the back of his head and jerked him to his feet. Now a forearm, thick and solid around his neck like a python on its prey. Joe gargled and flailed, his efforts laughable in the massive bouncer’s grip.

The dancer then became Joe Pierce’s ironic savior. She rushed forward and attacked Joe as the bouncer held him. The bouncer yelled at her to stop, was eventually forced to toss Joe aside in order to restrain the dancer’s fury.

Joe—on the floor, the room spinning from alcohol and adrenaline and rage—remembered the buck knife in his pocket.

Morris lifted his head from his phone. “Looks like our guy finally has a moniker.”

My daze broke. Surely I’d misheard him. “
What?
”

“No, not like that.
The High Striker
—that’s what they’re calling him now.”

“The what?”

“
High Striker
. It’s that carnival game where you hit the mark with a big mallet to test your strength. They’re calling him that because of the extreme bludgeoning job he does on them.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You ever heard one that isn’t? What did they call your buddy Thomas Hays?”

“He had dozens,” I said.

“The Cypher Slayer was the one that stuck.”

I couldn’t hide my disgust. “I’ll never understand it, these ridiculous names—we’re giving these assholes what they want.”

“And what’s that?”

“Immortality.”

“People are fascinated by the macabre. It’s unavoidable.”

“It’s asinine.”

For some reason, Morris sought fit to justify it. “Sometimes it makes things easier with a name—if for nothing else but convenience in discussion.”

“Then how about coward or loser or pathetic douche bag asshat? Would be nice if we remembered these monsters for what they truly are and not some iconic persona their sick minds are desperately trying to convey to the world.”

“I hardly think ‘The High Striker’ is flattering.”

I shook my head. “It’s something though.”

Morris conceded my point by sipping his coffee and going back to his phone.

I thought of Dr. Cole, the pain he went through (and forever
will
go through) after Thomas Hays killed his wife. I thought of how I’d exploited his wife’s murder in order to get him to prescribe me more of the drug. It made me nauseous. I kept telling myself that I was doing it for a greater good; that by taking the drug and helping Morris I was pre-empting the Thomas Hayses of the world. I might not be able to get Dr. Cole’s wife back, or any of the others back, but I could stop future atrocities, couldn’t I? That’s why I was here, wasn’t it?

And after you catch this one?

I go on to the next.

And after that one?

The next.

You can’t catch them all.

I can try.

Until you’re dead? Sounds like suicide to
me
.

It’s not suicide.

Let’s hope for Mike and Christopher’s sake you’re right.

I’m doing a good thing; the right thing.

So it’s Super Duper Martyr Day again, is it?

Yes—I’ll be forgiven when my time comes.

Oh puh-leeease…

“Mags?”

I blinked. “Huh?”

“You all right?”

I nodded too fast, obvious lie. “Yeah, why?”

“You looked constipated there for a minute.”

On this drug? Not a chance.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I would just really like to catch this guy.”

Morris leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips in thought. “And after that?” he asked.

Christ, was he just in my head?

“I’m not thinking about after that,” I lied. “I’m only thinking about this.”

Morris nodded slowly, lips pursed in thought again. “In the car you said you wanted to stop hunting and start trapping.”

“That’s right. What’s the point of knowing our prey if we don’t ultimately set a trap for him?”

“Just like that? It’s that easy?”

“Let’s say we found out everything about this guy, and I mean everything: what his trigger to start killing was, what he does to the right palm of all his victims, his
entire
backstory. So what? We’d still be using that information to hunt him.”

Morris’ chin retracted as though I was talking gibberish. “
And?
Each new window into our guy’s psyche places us a step closer towards why he does what he does.”

“But that’s just it,” I said. “Who cares why? Maybe he thinks aliens are making him do it. Maybe he had a Norman Bates kinda thing going on with his mother. Who cares? He’s still doing it. We need the how.
How
is he doing it?
How
is he choosing his victims? Not the why.”

“You say it as though how and why are mutually exclusive. You know better.”

I gave a frustrated nod. “I know the two aren’t mutually exclusive; of course I know that. I’m just saying…”

I wasn’t really sure
what
the hell I was saying.

“Jesus, Mags; we really have swapped demeanors. To think I would be the one telling
you
to be patient.”

I exhaled more frustration. “I’m just saying I think we know enough to stop following and start leading.”

“Set a trap,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I’m all ears.”

I opened my mouth but had no words. Morris cocked his head and raised both eyebrows at me as if to say, I’m waiting.

I closed my mouth, sat back in my chair, and folded my arms across my chest.

“We’re still courting the guy, Mags. We’ll know when we have enough to propose.”