So Close the Hand of Death (17 page)

Taylor set her half-eaten cookie back on the plate. “You saw him shoot the dog?”

“I did. I’d just gotten home from my first shift. Heard the shot, looked over. Ewan was standing there, snot running down his face. I remember he looked up at me, and he was so stricken. ‘I had to,’ he said. ‘He was hurt.’ But that dog was fine, right as rain. He killed him because he wanted to.”

Baldwin nodded. “He equated pain with love. That’s what his mother’s Munchausen’s did to him. The only way you can tell someone how much you love them is by hurting them. Physically hurting them. It brings all the attention to you.”

“That sounds about right. Betty did love those boys, no one could deny that. But she hated them a bit, too. She must have. How else could she have kept hurting them, over and over and over?”

Taylor met Baldwin’s eyes. They were beginning to have a better understanding of their adversary. Such understanding could lead to sympathy if they weren’t careful, and suddenly Taylor felt like they were stalling.
It was time to go. Time to erase this bastard off the face of the earth.

“Ms. Potts, you’ve been a wonderful help,” Taylor said. “Thank you so much for fixing me up. We need to get back on the road now.”

With minimal protestation, the nurse saw them out, pressed the extra Tagalongs into Taylor’s hand. She accepted them gratefully; she needed the sugar boost, could eat again despite the knowledge she’d just gained and the heavy, late lunch. They promised to stop by again if they were ever in town, then made their way to Baldwin’s BMW.

The noose was drawing tighter.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Kansas City, MO

Dear Troy,
Entering Kansas City now. It’s been a long drive.
But don’t worry, everything is under control.
ZK

H
ighway. Again. Gray strips of asphalt that ran on forever. He wished he had more time; he’d get off the interstate and run the roads through the cornfields.
Get your kicks, on Route 66
. Did Route 66 run through Missouri? He thought it must have, but he couldn’t remember. He carefully placed his knee against the steering wheel and reached beside him for his notebook. Glancing at the road every few seconds, he wrote himself a note.

Check on Route 66.

It was his way. He was the curious type. Despite his previous troubles, he liked to learn. He didn’t have the
best memory in the world, so he sometimes had to refresh himself.

Denver had gone so well. It was the best of the three cities he’d been in. It even topped his first in San Francisco. He thought popping his cherry was going to be the highlight of his life, but Denver proved him wrong. It would get better, and better, and better. He was getting more confident. That helped. He chalked Vegas, the flailing and gushing blood everywhere, up to simply being scared. Performance anxiety. He had worried that when the time came, he wouldn’t be able to deliver. He’d gotten himself really worked up and the nerves made him pull the knife early. He rushed the big finish. He hadn’t gotten a real chance to see the terror in their eyes fade to nothingness as they died.

But Denver…oh, sweet mother of God. Denver was perfection. Cherry Creek Reservoir was hand-built for murder. The meandering paths, the snowy lane. Drops of blood on the white canvas of his world, so elegant. He was not making Jackson Pollock paintings. Wait, was that the artist’s name? Jackson? Or Johnson?

He pulled out the notebook again.

One hundred miles to Kentucky. And he was right on time. He bent his neck to the left, then to the right, hunched his shoulders and felt the muscles stretch out. He was so cramped in this car, so boxed in. He needed something bigger to allow his frame to sit comfortably. He had a friend once who’d owned a Prius. He’d lasted an hour in it before his thighs cramped up.

It wouldn’t be too much longer now. He was on the last leg of his itinerary.

Their fearless leader had picked the victims so well. Troy had assured him that the girl would respond to the Craigslist ad. Rollerblades. In winter, at that. He
wondered how the man knew so much, then pushed that thought aside. When it was time, he would be enlightened. When he won the game, the master would share all with him—the money, the benefit of his years of experience, his real name. They’d been instructed to call him Troy. If he were being honest with himself, Troy didn’t sound like the name of a man who could mastermind an operation of this kind. But he’d promised the winner the goods. Winner take all. The million-dollar prize. He could do so much with that money.

And once he’d won, been
chosen,
Troy would hone his new apprentice into a fine, sharp edge, so they could go on killing without ever getting caught.

He wasn’t entirely sure of himself yet. The idea of becoming a serial killer had its upside, yes. Truth be told, he just needed the money. He hadn’t counted on enjoying it so much.

Troy. Wasn’t that the name of that city, the one with the fake horse? All that blood spilled over a woman. What was her name? Hera? No, that was a goddess, Zeus’s wife. Halley? No, that was the name of the girl he’d just killed. Helen? Helen. That sounded right.

He wrote it down in his notebook, just in case.

T
he glowing green clock in Baldwin’s dashboard read 8:45 p.m.

He tapped his fingers along the wheel, trying to decide what their next step should be. Head back to Nashville? Head north to Raleigh? They might be smart to stay put, at least until Roddie Hall called them back with news about Ruth Anderson.

“That was a sad story,” Taylor said. She had drawn her hair up into a messy ponytail on the top of her head, the ends just wisping against the middle of her back. He loved her hair. So thick it had a mind of its own. He reached over and tugged the holder away, let the mass of it spill over his hand.

“Yes, it was. One of the worst I’ve heard in a long time. Not a huge surprise though. That kind of abuse, deadly abuse, disguised as loving kindness—it’s really no wonder he ended up a killer. He didn’t know any other way to interact with people—”

“But that’s no excuse.”

“No, no, that’s no excuse. Plenty of children are abused and don’t end up murdering people.” He looked over at Taylor. The playful spirit that had
bubbled up between them before they talked to the old nurse was gone.

“What trips the switch?” she finally asked.

“If I could answer that, I’d be a very rich man. Every mind is different. You’ve seen this a hundred times, people who weren’t abused do terrible things, people who were abused go on to lead normal, loving lives. We’re back to nature versus nurture. I do think there’s something genetic to all of this, the predisposition could be there, but the choice to kill is just that, their choice.”

“And the odds of one man spawning two killers with two different women?”

“Unthinkable. I don’t know of a case like it. Granted, Betty’s genes played a part. If I had more time, I’d love to do a historical study on both Roger and Betty’s families, just to see. Of course, no one knows who Betty’s real father was, so that’s hard to track.”

She grew quiet, allowed him to massage the tightness in her shoulders.

“Your leg okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Ms. Potts must be a hell of a nurse. I can’t even feel it.”

“The Neosporin she applied has lidocaine in it. Numbs the skin.”

“Smart.”

She captured his hand, pressed his flesh to her lips. Ah, that drove him crazy. She drove him crazy. Though how he could be thinking about sex at a time like this?

His cell rang, making them both jump like guilty teenagers caught necking in the car. Taylor giggled as he fumbled the phone from its holster. Good, she was feeling better. Melancholy didn’t suit her.

“It’s Hall,” he said, and answered with a truly professional, “John Baldwin.”

“She’s gone, man. Just like you thought. Looks like Ruth Anderson took off at least a few days ago. Neighbors saw her last Saturday, but can’t remember seeing her since. We’ve got evidence galore in her apartment—including emails with directions for the killings in Nags Head. Police chief here in Durham got us a search warrant while we were staging, and we’ve hit the mother lode. Don’t know where she’s headed, but we know where she’s been. And she’s been a busy little bee.”

Baldwin popped in one of his favorite CDs by a band called Butterfly Boucher. He keyed the player up to “Another White Dash,” his ultimate road-trip song, and hummed along to the words quietly. Taylor had fallen asleep just before Knoxville, and he intended to keep her that way.

Hall was of the opinion that Ruth Anderson was no longer in Raleigh, nor North Carolina, for that matter, because of an email from someone as yet unidentifiable who said to “come to N” if there was trouble.

Nashville.

N
could have been anything, but the most logical place that was in the pool of discussion was their town. Returning to the scene of the crime in Nags Head would be suicide, there was still a very active investigative search going on in that area. Ruth’s cover had been blown wide-open, and her picture was plastered all over the evening news. Baldwin wondered what Mrs. Anderson would think of his deception, then stashed that thought away. He’d done what he needed to, plain and simple.

It was just about midnight. He would get them back
to Nashville by 3:00 a.m. They’d have time to regroup for a couple of hours before embarking on the next stage of the investigation. Having the sister was going to help them close this case one hell of a lot faster. If they could find her. He called Buddy Morgan and filled him in on the situation, let him know he needed to keep watch at the Anderson home on the off chance Ruth decided to come home, or call her mother. Morgan assured him that it would be taken care of.

I-40 was flowing well, considering the roadwork and multiple long-haul trucks making their way through the mountain region. It was quiet, the moon shining brightly off the snow that crusted the hilltops, the trees marching over the ridges in ragged formation, like soldiers after a wearying battle. He was so tired. The emotional wreckage of the past few days reared its ugly head—his career, his life with Taylor, the threat against her life, the knowledge that his son was out there, being raised by another man—it was all too much. They needed a break. A real vacation, away from Nashville. Away from everything. He could tell her the truth with nothing hanging over their heads, and God willing, she’d forgive him.

Taylor’s cell phone began to trill. She shifted in her seat and opened her eyes, the insomniac in her immediately awake.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Just past Crossville. Sorry, I forgot to turn off your phone. I was trying to let you sleep.”

She looked at the caller ID. “That’s all right. It’s Lincoln.” She stretched as she answered.

“Hey, Linc, what’s up?”

He glanced over and watched her face in the moonlight. She mumbled “uh-huh” three times, then grabbed
her notebook and started writing. He loved how she could go from sleepy mouse to Valkyrie warrior at a moment’s notice.

She hung up the phone, and her statement wiped the smile right off his face.

“We have a problem.”

Of course they did. “What now?”

“Let me make a call. I’ll put it on speaker. You’ll get the gist of the issue.”

She was already dialing, referring to the number she’d written down in her notebook. She set the open phone on the console and clicked the speaker button. Baldwin heard three long rings, then the call connected. A woman answered, she sounded wide-awake. “Hello?”

“Ms. Keck?” Taylor asked.

“Lieutenant Jackson? How are you? Call me Colleen.”

“Colleen, then. One of my detectives said you’d called in and asked to speak to me personally. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“You don’t remember me, do you? We met at a FOP function several years ago. You were only a detective then, but my husband, Tommy, introduced us. It was before he…he died.”

Taylor was silent for a moment. “Of course I remember. I apologize, I’m running on fumes. How are you, Colleen? How’s Flynn?”

“Oh, good, you do remember. So many people would have just lied.”

“Tommy was a good man. Sorry it took me a moment to put it together. So what can I do for you?”

“Lieutenant, Tommy told me that if I was ever in
trouble, I should come to you. He thought the world of you.”

“Are you in trouble, Colleen?”

A ghost of a laugh bled through the speaker. “More than I can tell you. Have you ever heard of a blog called Felon E?”

Nashville, Tennessee

“R
uth, Ruth, Ruth. Tsk. I am so disappointed in you.”

She squirmed. The wood must be biting into her knees.

“Ewan, it’s not my fault. Please believe me. I left nothing to chance. Nothing. There’s no way they could follow my trail back to you.”

He had to admit, he was enjoying the sheer panic in Ruth’s voice. She was expecting to be killed. He didn’t disabuse her of the notion. She knew the penalties for failure.

“And yet they did. Now how do you suppose that happened? Hmm? Because it certainly wasn’t anything
I
did.”

He gave her hair a little tug. She was on her knees facing him, and he had a fistful of brown. She grimaced, but didn’t cry out. Strong little Ruth. Willing to do most anything for him. Lie. Steal. Kill. Handy in a sister.

“Answer me, Ruth. What do they have on me?”

Her words came out in harsh little pants. “Nothing. I swear to you, nothing. If they found my apartment it was totally by chance. Someone must have recognized me at one of the crime scenes. They had pictures of us coming in the door from the security cameras. They must have shown them around and someone figured out it was me. I know it wasn’t Newt or Harvey. We killed Newt as soon as we got out of North Carolina.”

“You killed Newt? I didn’t give permission for that.”

“I’m sorry. I had to. I was afraid…”

“Afraid of what?”

Tears formed in her eyes. “Afraid that you had told him to kill me, or Harvey. I couldn’t take the chance.”

“Don’t you trust me, Ruth? I’m your brother.”

The mongoose to the cobra.

“Of course I trust you, Ewan. But Newt was acting weird, checking his email constantly. I just got freaked out. Maybe he was a plant, you know? Someone from their side, an informant. Harvey wanted to do it, so I said yes.”

Look at dear Ruth, showing some backbone. He had to admit, he was impressed. She was smarter than he gave her credit for.

“Have you kept Harvey in check? We don’t need any more negative attention. This is my plan, my game. Not his.”

“Of course. I told him to lay off.”

“Ruth, don’t lie to me. I saw a case of a missing boy here in town, from last weekend. I know you were here with Harvey doing reconnaissance over Halloween. You didn’t have some fun while you were here, did you?”

“No, no. We didn’t.”

He pulled harder, felt little bits of hair release at the roots. She whimpered at last.

“Yes, okay. We couldn’t help ourselves. He was right there, fresh for the taking. Drunk. You know how Harvey is with drunk boys wandering the streets. I’m so sorry. He won’t be found, won’t be connected to you. I promise. Harvey took him out of town.”

My God. You just can’t trust anyone to stick to the plan these days.

He snarled at her, face right in hers, his spit splashing across her lips and nose. “You didn’t have the right to make that decision.”

She sagged against him, allowing him to yank harder on her hair. “You’re right. I will take care of Harvey. I’ll kill him tonight. I promise.”

Good. She’d gotten the message. He released her hair and she fell to the floor with a satisfyingly loud thump.

He moved to his chair and sat, watched her rub her scalp, then sit up cautiously and cross her legs like she used to do when she was a kid.

“I swear,” she said, looking him in the eye.

“What will they find in your apartment?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” But she looked away, and he knew there was more that she wasn’t telling him. Stupid, stupid girl.

“What do they have, Ruth. Tell me. Tell me!”

She started to cry, wrapped her arms around her body and rocked gently to and fro, a boat cast adrift in an increasingly dangerous swelling sea.

He sucked in a breath through his nose. Losing his temper now wasn’t what they needed. Ruth would scuttle off if he showed his true rage, shut down and rock for hours, just like when she was little. He used to follow
her home from school, sneak her off into the woods and play. Chess mostly, checkers and backgammon were too easy. She was good at keeping secrets, but if she went on overload, she’d turn off, retreat into that precious, special little world she had and he wouldn’t get anything more out of her tonight. And damn if he didn’t need her help, one last time.

He softened his tone, bent to her level.

“I’m sorry, Ruth. I’ve had a hard day. I didn’t mean to yell at you.” Conciliatory wasn’t his forte, and she sniffed and turned her head away. He decided to try a different tack.

“You can tell me. I promise I won’t get mad.”

She didn’t look up. Spoke in a tiny voice. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

She wrapped her arms tighter around her legs, like she could disappear into herself. “My laptop is on my desk. I didn’t bring it with me. I thought I’d have a chance to go home. Things have been so crazy, moved so fast… Then Harvey decided he wanted to do the boy here, and we got behind on the schedule and had to rush to Nags Head.” She broke off, sensing he was about to blow his load.

“Your laptop. With all the emails?”

“Yes.”

The emails that led directly to him. Well, it was nearly time to vacate the premises anyway, the last stage of the plan was about to go into motion. Time to let the acolytes make their move. See if they were as good as he hoped.

Ruth had started her industrial-strength rocking. He needed to pull her out before the trance got too deep.

“Ruthie, what if I told you someone needed to die?
Today, as a matter of fact. Not Harvey—you can keep him. I know you like him. Would that cheer you up?”

He saw her eyes slide toward him. Bloodthirsty little beast. He knew the idea of death would get her attention.

“Who?” she asked, voice small and childish.

“Colleen Keck. The blogger. It’s time for her to go.”

Ruth unfolded from the floor, scooted over to him with a feral little smile on her lips. She looked up with doe eyes for permission, which he granted. She stroked his leg.

“Harvey’s already on her. He’s been watching her since we left North Carolina. She was the first stop when we got back, I left him at the top of her street, before I came here. He’s got it covered.”

“No, my sweet. I want you to do it.”

“Why? Not that I wouldn’t be happy to, of course, you know that. But I thought you wanted her left alive until the very end. You’ve changed your mind?”

He stood and walked to the window, leaving Ruth crumpled on the floor like a discarded lotus flower. “Yes. I’ve changed my mind. That’s my prerogative.”

“But you always told me to stick to the plan—”

“Ruth, no buts.”

“I thought I got to kill the other woman.”

He looked over his shoulder. “After the mess you made of things in North Carolina? No, Ruth. You don’t get rewarded for fucking up.”

Rock, rock, rock.

“Don’t pout, Ruthie. Keck will be fun. I promise. She’s become a liability. Too smart for her own good. She’ll figure out the victim pool anytime now. Those perverted, stupid idiots on her site blew the surprise. So
she has to go now, before she alerts anyone else. This is a big favor for me, a personal favor. You know what happens when you do me personal favors, right?”

“I get to ask a favor in return.”

“That’s right. You’re such a good girl. Now go. Take care of this pesky bitch for me.”

Ruth got to her feet. “Yes, Ewan. If you say so.”

“I say so. Take off. I have other things to do. And, Ruth? You know what to do if you’re caught.”

Her lips turned down and her face got white. “Yes, brother.”

He watched her scramble from his apartment and sighed. Maybe he should have given in to the impulse to have her die back in North Carolina? No, what’s done was done. Her mistakes would accelerate the plan. While the Jackson bitch was smart, she wasn’t a magician. He knew Ruth was telling the truth—she’d tried to keep his secrets. He’d been so careful to cover his tracks. New names every year. New cities. New faces, too. Ruth was the only one alive who knew who he really was, the rest of his family was dead or gone. His mother especially, she was bat shit crazy, didn’t even remember she’d had children. He’d gone to see her once, three years earlier. Just to be sure. Her brain was mush, the years of insanity and the cancer drugs had turned it into psychotic cornmeal. She saw devils on the shoulders of her guards, who had to force her to bathe since she’d developed a fear of water. She’d become a regular Medusa, her hair twisted into smelly, unkempt dreadlocks. She’d been trapped inside her own mind.

No, he was safe on that account. He had no concerns about anyone finding out the truth. The bitch was dead.

But he had the final three chess pieces moving toward
him. Which would it be? Who would win the game? Who would be found worthy? Which pawn would cross the length of the board and have the chance to watch him kill Jackson, in the method of the winner’s killing profile? He’d chosen his three favorite historical killers for the last. Watching her die by any of their methods would be good fun.

The million dollars was incentive, certainly. They were all highly motivated. If he had to lay down odds, he’d have to say the young lad from Boston was the likeliest candidate. When they’d talked, he seemed calmer than the rest, more mature. More focused. He was independently wealthy, so he wasn’t in it for the money. Not like California—he was in debt up to his ears, his house had been foreclosed on, he had no ties, no foundation. And an extra long trip—probably not fair, stacking the odds against him like that, but he was so obviously mercenary. Sadly, his boy from Long Island was riding the edge. He was unpredictable, maybe even crazy. No, he thought Boston was the real contender.

A new apprentice. How very exciting.

He smiled to himself as he watched Ruth drive away. There were words she used to say to him when they were children. They held no meaning for him before, but as he grew older, they finally, finally started to make sense.

Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.

He was Ruth’s God. Just like he was about to become Taylor Jackson’s God. Time to finish this. He was getting bored. He understood bostonboy’s impatience, sometimes challenges grew tedious. They had to be
resolved, or else they were just open-ended tasks. Sisyphean.

He turned from the window and grabbed his lanyard with the laminated badge that spelled out her doom. Strung it around his neck and looked down at the smiling visage, the face that even he barely recognized anymore.

Oh, yes, Taylor. It’s nearly time.