The Axeman's Jazz (Skip Langdon Mystery Series #2) (The Skip Langdon Series) (23 page)

It had been just dark when they’d arrived and by now the moon had had plenty of time to rise. There was much more light, quite a lot now, but trees blocked out the sky. Alex said they’d have to walk to a clearing to get a really good view of the moon. He led the way down a well-worn path, hardly needing the flashlight. There was the faint scent of ozone in the air and Skip worried momentarily whether it would rain before they could get home on the bike.

Alex said, “Here we are.” She stepped into the clearing—a small one with a rustic bench in the middle—and automatically looked up.

“It’s full!” Full and gorgeous. She hoped the Axeman wasn’t susceptible to its pull.

“Jesus, what the hell is that?” Alex stepped backward, nearly landing on her foot, and trained his flashlight on the ground.

“It looks like a chicken.”

It was, and there was another one lying beside it, both dead. Near these two were others, arranged more or less in a pile, or perhaps just left as they fell.

Skip wanted to bend down to examine them, but didn’t dare put herself at such a disadvantage. The heads of some were grotesquely askew. Alex kicked one; the head flopped, leaving no doubt the neck was broken.

He said, “The Axeman strikes again.”

Skip’s forearms erupted in goose bumps. “The Axeman?”

“He strangles his victims, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but the last I heard he wasn’t killing chickens.”

“Well, somebody strangled those.” He knelt and picked up one chicken after another, feeling their necks. Skip knelt also, keeping her distance, also feeling the carcasses. No question. Strangled.

“They must be freshly killed,” said Alex. “They don’t stink yet, and in this heat…”

“You act like you’re conducting an investigation.”

“That’s it. I am Hercule Poirot, gearing up my little gray cells.”

“Hey, you don’t think this is creepy at all?”

“You got down and touched them. The average woman wouldn’t do that.”

She shrugged, trying like hell for casualness. “They’re only chickens.”

“They’ve been murdered.”

“Oh, come on, Alex.”

“What other explanation could there be? And, by the way, who did it? The Campbells aren’t home—I’m the only one who’s supposed to be here.”

She looked him square in the eye: “Did you do it?”

A glimpse of what could have been surprise passed over his features, and then he started laughing; loudly and inappropriately. She felt for the gun in her backpack, ready just in case. When he’d gained control, he said, “You’re something, you know that? There’s a mad strangler loose in this town, you’re all alone with me, and you just asked if I strangled a dozen chickens.”

“Just curious.”

“You aren’t acting even a little afraid.”

“I’ll ask again. Did you do it?”

“Come here.” He reached for her, his eyes suddenly soft with desire.

“Not now, Alex. Are you crazy? Let’s get out of here.”

“Okay.” He waved her ahead of him.

“Uh-uh. Women and children last.”

Alex stood still. “This guy could still be here.”

“Let’s go.”

He moved toward her again. “Getting scared? Are you finally getting a little nervous? Do you want my arms around you?”

“Alex, this is no time for kidding around.”

“Take my hand.”

“I’ll just follow you.”

He shrugged, but turned on the flashlight and started down the path. After a few moments, he reached back for her. “Come on; take my hand.”

“I’m okay. Really.”

“But I’m scared.”

“Oh, give me a break. You’re a guy with a Harley.”

He laughed again. “I’ve never met a woman like you.”

As soon as they were off the path, in the area that would have been a yard if one had been planted, he stopped and reached for her, hands high, catching her shoulders.

Too close to the neck for comfort.

“I want you.”

She shook him off. “This isn’t the time for that.”

“Feel my cock.”

“No!” But she sneaked a look and what she saw made her palms sweat. It was graphically obvious that this was a man on whom the sight of strangled chickens had had a strong erotic effect. She was planning what to say, what calming, non-threatening tack to take, when suddenly his breath was in her face, his arms going around her. She struggled and his arms tightened. She kicked his shin.

“Whoa!” he hollered, but hung on. She broke from his grasp.

“Don’t even think about it, Alex. I’m almost as big as you are and in much better shape.”

“Run. Let me chase you.”

Her scalp prickled. She strove for control. “Could I ask you a question? What’s so exciting about a bunch of dead chickens?”

“It isn’t the chickens. It’s you.”

“Well, listen, I have a headache.”

“I guess I read the situation wrong.”

“I said no. How do you get clearer than that?”

He shrugged. “I thought you meant yes.”

Struggling to keep her cool, she said, “Now we each know what the other meant. I think we should go, don’t you?”

“We have to clean up.”

As they worked, they listened to an oldies radio station (chosen by Alex) and even danced a little. It all seemed so normal and friendly that she started to relax. There was something offbeat about Alex’s sexuality, that was for sure, but at least he didn’t seem to be a rapist. He probably wasn’t lying—he probably really had misread the situation, though if you asked her, he hadn’t done any reading at all, simply acted on impulse. That didn’t make him all that different from lots of other men.

As she hung up her dishcloth, she felt his arms once again go around her waist, his lips brush her neck. “For Christ’s sake, Alex, enough’s enough!”

His arms tightened. “You’re so sexy when you’re trying not to be.”

She smashed an elbow into his ribs, broke his grip, and stepped out of range. He lunged, but again she stepped away.

“You crazy bastard!”

“You like it rough, don’t you? I can tell when a woman does.”

She didn’t like the confined way she felt here. Her scalp was prickling again, and she was uncomfortably aware that he stood between her and her backpack. She started circling, hoping to get it, momentarily playing his game. He circled with her, obviously enjoying it.

She grabbed the pack and ran for the door. He caught her there, but she shook him off and made for the hog. He was close behind her, caught her quickly. He tackled her at the waist, bringing her down on top of him, rolling her over, holding her down, kissing her.

“Get off of me, you asshole, or I swear to God I’ll knee you in the balls.”

Thinking about it later, she wondered why she gave him the warning, why she didn’t just knee him, and thought that even then she hadn’t been really terrified, hadn’t yet been convinced he wasn’t just playing a game—a perverse, dangerous, almost unbelievably stupid game, but not rape.

“Don’t call me an asshole. I really hate it when people call me an asshole.” He rolled off her, and the second she was free she was on her feet and walking.

“Thanks for a fascinating evening, Alex.”

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m hitchhiking home. It’s safer.”

“Come on. I can’t leave you here.”

“Goddammit,” she called over her shoulder, “I could have you arrested for what you just did.”

“I thought it was what you wanted.”

She bit down the next thing it came to her to call him— “sicko”—and settled for “Sorry, I don’t have sex on the first date.” The words echoed in the dark.

“Well, why didn’t you tell me?” Once again his voice was petulant.

She didn’t answer.

“How about the second date?”

She started running toward the main road, knowing he couldn’t follow before he’d turned out the lights and locked up. But something crashed out of the brush, nearly sending her up the nearest tree.

“SKIP!”

“Adam.” She stopped, panting, heart in throat. “Let’s get out of here before he sees us together.”

When she had recovered her breath, she thanked Abasolo for sticking close to her, and for giving her a chance to handle it when Alex jumped her.

“That wasn’t exactly on purpose.” He was smiling; his fine teeth gleamed in the dark. “I was just about on him when you yelled—scared me as much as you did him. I mean when you said, ‘knee you in the balls,’ I paid attention.”

Knowing it was a compliment, that he was saying he knew she hadn’t needed him, Skip gave him a friendly cuff. “Oh, shut up.”

“You saw the chickens?” she said.

“Yeah. Ugly.”

“What do you think of him—Alex?”

“The guy’s not normal.”

“But is he the Axeman?”

“Well, he didn’t try to kill you.”

“Come on, I’m almost as big as he is. Maybe he was working up to it.”

“Maybe.”

The Covington police were incredulous. They said there were a lot of perverts around, but “ain’t nobody in St. Tammany Parish mean enough to murder a flock of innocent chickens.” They said, sure, the New Orleans crime lab people could come collect the chickens, they’d be happy about that. But were things so quiet the New Orleans department had nothing better to do than investigate fowl deeds in another parish?

Neighbors confirmed that the Campbells were in Europe and that they’d been told an Alex Bignell would be in and out. Some had heard his hog, but no one had seen him or anyone else on the property. No one had heard the hog—or any vehicle—earlier that day. A careful inspection of the chicken graveyard failed to turn up a scarlet A.

Skip was feeling let down when Abasolo finally dropped her off at home.

She played her messages. Her old friend Cookie Lamoreaux had phoned, asking her to an Axeman party the next night; and so had Di, which surprised her. She hadn’t thought of twelve-steppers as raging party animals.

She checked her inner-child phone lists, old ones she’d gotten from Di. They showed that the Campbells were indeed regulars at the meetings.

What did it all mean? Heedless of the hour—it was now after one—she phoned Cindy Lou and asked.

“Chickens?” squealed the woman she admired most in the world. “You’re calling me about chickens?”

“Serial murderers kill animals, don’t they?”

“Yes, or they’re cruel to them. That’s part of the profile, both as children and adults.”

“Well, at the risk of repeating myself, what do you think it means?”

Fully awake now, Cindy Lou sounded serious. “I hate to say it, babe, but realistically speaking, I think it’s got to be the Axeman, and I think it confirms he’s in the group—or she is, if you want to be picky about it. One of the victims came out of the group, the owners of the house are big in the group, they’ve had parties for the group at the house, and the whole group probably knows they’re not at home. Now what does that add up to?”

“Exactly what we were thinking. But why kill chickens?”

“Listen, Skip, I know you don’t want to hear this, but that could be pre-crime behavior. We know about one guy that knocked off neighborhood dogs before committing murder.”

“But why now? After he’s already killed two people?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Well, sorry I woke you up.”

“But I’ve sure as hell got an opinion on who it is.”

She had given Cindy Lou an account of the whole evening, including some parts left out of her report to Cappello. “Alex, by any chance?”

“Yeah, but there’s one thing that doesn’t make sense if he’s it. Why aren’t you dead?”

But she knew the answer; must have known it intuitively all the time she was with him. Because the Axeman was smart. He wouldn’t kill her at a house to which he was known to have the key. Maybe he liked to play with his victims first.

At 8:15
A.M.
, as soon as Alex had roared away on his hog, Skip marched up to his door with a clipboard, rang the doorbell, and awaited her first glimpse of the long-suffering Mrs. Bignell. Instead, a dried-out old coot answered the door, so shockingly indicative of what Alex’s rough handsomeness would shrink down to that she drew in her breath.

Wearing khakis and a salmon-colored shirt with an alligator on it, he was a dapper old thing even at this time of day. She spoke to him in the ingratiating interrogatives of the true Southern girl (if not woman).

“Mr. Bignell? I’m Margaret, from the planning department? I wonder if we could talk a little?”

“Sure, sure. Good mornin’, good mornin’.” His manner was hearty. “Come in, won’t you? Would you like some coffee?”

She said she would and was led into a bachelor kitchen, more redolent with the smell of yesterday’s coffee grounds than with the new brew. He seated her across from him at a yellow Formica table and, while he got her coffee, kept up a running commentary on the weather.

“You ever seen anything this hot? I mean, it’s been hot before, but not like this. I’m tellin’ you we got to get those rocks back on the moon.”

Finally, he sat down and asked what he could do her for. She gave him a spiel about possible plans for developing the neighborhood and how “the department” wanted the neighbors’ opinions first.

“Development!” He made the word a sneer. “You mean high-rises. Forget that crap.”

“I can see you’re not the one Carol Meier talked to. Whoever that was seemed to take a different attitude.”

“Elec!”

“Beg pardon?”

“My worthless son.”

“I didn’t quite catch the name.”

“Elec. Short for Alexander.”

She had heard it lots of times as a child, had never known it came from Alexander. Hearing it now, she felt the twinge of inadequacy she always did when confronted with things Southern that she didn’t get. Was this simply a mispronunciation of Alex or another nickname?

“Could be.” She flipped through pages, finally saying, “August ninth. A Thursday.” Since Linda Lee had missed work on Friday, the presumption was that she’d died Thursday night.

“Nope. I was home. I always watch ‘Cheers,’ don’t miss it for any reason.”

“Could Carol have talked to you, then?”

“Is she good-looking?”

“Mr. Bignell!”

“Now, you call me Lamar, you hear? I asked because if she was good-looking—looked anything like you, for instance—I’d have remembered.”