Stirred (17 page)

It puzzled me in a needling sort of way, like I was missing something as it stared right in my face.

Fingerprints found on the box belonged to Luther Kite.

Fingerprints found on the book belonged to Andrew Z. Thomas.

I mulled that over. Had Luther somehow gotten one of Andrew’s personal copies in an attempt to make it seem like Thomas was involved? Or perhaps Thomas wasn’t locked up in Violet’s basement, as the literary agent had suggested, but in Kite’s.

The thought of being the captive of a psychopath since 2004 made me shiver.

I had another thought. I’d forgotten to take a picture of the plastic bag that read
JACK D—THIS ONE WAS A REAL SWINGER—LK
in black marker. Since I had a sample of Thomas’s handwriting from the letter he’d sent his agent, it was possible to compare the two and determine if they matched. If they did, that was pretty solid evidence that Andrew Z. Thomas was still alive.

I texted Herb, asking for pics of both bags.

Then I reread the
Scorcher
excerpt, my eyes lingering on the last line of the page.

“A little spark is followed by a great flame.”

That sounded like a quote I’d heard before.

I Googled it.

Hmm.

It was from Dante Alighieri, writer of
The
Divine Comedy
. Curious, I went through the remainder of the text, feeding each sentence into Google, but the remaining hits were all bootleg e-book excerpts from
The Scorcher
. I repeated the process with the second book and came up with similar results until I searched on the line:
Remember tonight…for it is the beginning of always
.

Dante again.

I doubted that was a coincidence. I perused Dante’s Wikipedia page, wondering what connection a poet from the Middle Ages might possibly have to these murders. Then I surfed over to Amazon.com and found a free copy of
The Divine Comedy
for my Kindle app. I also checked out the page for
The Scorcher
, which was $12.99—a ridiculous price for an e-book, especially one so old. But I bought it—even cognizant of the fact that the royalties went straight to Violet King’s beer-and-cigarette fund—and then spent ten minutes scanning through the several hundred customer reviews.

The Scorcher
averaged three stars. Many were five-star praises, but an equal number were one-star wonders from people who seemed shocked that a thriller about a serial killer who burned his victims alive contained scenes of graphic violence.

Halfway into the fourth page of reviews, I came across one that made me do a double-take.

Thomas wrote this book as an ode to the seventh circle of hell in Dante’s Inferno, illustrated through the anti-hero’s journey away from God and toward this inner ring. By embracing violence, he embraces his own downfall.

While that review seemed more insightful than most, it was the reviewer’s name that caught me by surprise.

ALONEAGAIN.

Same screen name as the one who left those messages to me on Andrew Z. Thomas’s message board.

I clicked on the name, but it took me to another screen which informed me that “This customer has not created a profile yet.” I checked for other reviews by ALONEAGAIN, and found several, all of them for Andrew Z. Thomas novels.

I surfed over to the review for
The Killer and His Weapon.

Thomas continues the Alighieri allegory (grin), focusing on the fifth circle of the inferno, anger. How are your anger issues, Jack?

I reflexively looked around my office, suddenly feeling as though I was being watched. I almost called out to Phin but managed to keep the fear in check.

The review was dated five months ago.

I read the others, but they were all older, and none of them addressed to me.

Wrapping a blanket tightly around my shoulders, I plunked down another thirteen bucks, brought up the file on my computer, and began to read
The Killer and His Weapon.

March 31, 9:50 P.M.

C
ynthia sipped the last of her espresso, courtesy of the seven-hundred-dollar machine occupying much of her kitchen counter, and then attacked her keyboard. She was finishing up her weekly post on
The Agent Knows Better,
her wildly popular blog.

Your query letter is one of the most terribly uninteresting things I’ve ever read, and even if your novel is ten times as good it would still be unsalable, unpalatable, and unworthy of my time. I encourage you to read my book,
Golden Query Letters
, and start over from scratch. But first, go back to high school and get that GED. Hopefully English is not your first language.

Cynthia smiled. Snarky and funny, yet truthful. The thousands of wannabe newbies following her blog would love it. She cut and pasted the next e-mail into her blog, a simple question from one of the clueless asking if self-publishing e-books was a viable career alternative. She heard her cell phone ringing but didn’t pick up, eager to correct the mindless dolt on the realities of e-books.

No one makes money self-publishing,
Cynthia typed.
There are a few loudmouth, know-it-all writers who blog about their successes, but they are no doubt liars. The only legitimate way to publish is through a respected publishing house. E-books are a fad, and the fools who jump on that bandwagon will blacklist themselves in the traditional publishing world.

She saved the entry and then went to Twitter to announce her latest entry to her myriad of faithful followers.

Too bad they were all talentless hacks who would never sell anything.

It would be a few minutes before she started receiving comments, so she turned her attention to her cell and listened to the voicemail.

“It’s me. I need you to get on the next plane to Detroit. I’ll text you instructions when you arrive.”

Cynthia’s heart rate doubled. She listened to the message again, to make sure she’d heard correctly, and then hopped onto Priceline.com to find a flight from LaGuardia to Michigan.

March 31, 10:30 P.M.

H
e checks out of the Blackstone and stands outside in the cold mist, waiting for the valet to bring his Mercedes Sprinter. God, he loves this vehicle, but it’s time to get it out of sight. Off the streets. News of the little package he deposited at the Shedd Aquarium is out, and numerous people saw his van pull up. If not already, the word on his ride will be out very soon.

He tips the valet a quarter and climbs in and speeds off down Michigan.

Swings around onto Lake Shore Drive and barrels north eating Lemonheads and listening to Miles Davis. He likes Miles. Lemonheads, not so much. But he’s all about embracing bad habits.

Luther registers a palpable sense of relief when, a half-hour later, he’s finally off the main roads and driving through a quiet, mostly deserted neighborhood.

He’s safe here.

The lights of the Sprinter slash through the fog and strike the rear of the semi-trailer. He brings the van to a stop and leaves it running as he opens the door and steps outside.

The ramp is a bitch to drag down but he manages.

He drives the Benz up into the trailer and parks it against the front wall. The fit is too tight to open the driver’s-side door, so Luther climbs back through the cargo area and exits out the rear doors.

It has been a big day, a perfect day, but tomorrow will be even bigger.

Historic.

The culmination of thousands of hours of work.

But there is still much work to do
, he thinks as he strains to lift the auto ramp,
and miles to go before I sleep.

And I have promises to keep.

April 1, 1:23 A.M.

T
hey’d spent the measly twenty-six dollars Henry had given them on gas. Goddamn pay-at-the-pumps made it impossible to steal fuel. And that fat bitch Violet King, useful as she was, had only had ten bucks on her, which they’d also put into the tank. That meant, if they wanted to eat, they’d have to steal food or money.

Shoplifting seemed to involve less risk.

Why hadn’t they thought to eat back at Violet’s place? She wouldn’t have missed the food.

As it was, this 7-Eleven would have to do.

Donaldson went in first, the big pockets of his overalls much better at concealing foodstuffs than Lucy’s ugly-ass housedress.

She distracted the Indian clerk at the counter by asking for bogus directions.

The convenience store no doubt had closed circuit cameras, but they were a long way from the institution. If the clerk happened to catch them, they both looked pathetic enough to probably get away with just a warning.

Donaldson pinched two packages of Twinkies, a handful of Slim Jims, some candy bars, and was reaching for something
he
could actually eat—a cup of apple sauce—when he heard, “You! What are you doing!”

He froze, feeling a sense of humiliation that took him back to his youth and being scolded by his father.

The clerk shoved Lucy aside and stormed over, his expression pure anger.

“Empty your pockets! Right now!”

When Donaldson didn’t move, the prick actually put his hands on him, taking out all of the stolen snacks. Donaldson stared over his shoulder at Lucy, who was reaching for the gun stuffed into the back of her underwear. She’d been holding it so Donaldson had more room for food. He shook his head—shooting would bring the police. Instead, he lowered his eyes and apologized to the prick.

“I’m sorry. I was hungry. I haven’t eaten in—”

“Then get a job and earn some money, you freak. If I see you in my store again, I’m calling the cops.”

After removing the last Snickers bar, he grabbed Donaldson by the bib strap and escorted him out of his store. Pain flared all over Donaldson’s body, but he dared not resist.

Once outside, he followed Lucy, the two of them limping toward their piece-of-shit car parked across the street.

“You were supposed to distract him,” Donaldson said.