The Killing Vision (6 page)

Another envelope in the file contained the photos
from the autopsy, which he had just received yesterday from Scotty.  Several of
the pictures showed close-ups of the throat wound from different angles, but
again there was not much to look at.  In one photo, a measuring tape showed the
slit to be a little over six inches long.

See me?

A sudden chill rattled him.  He shoved the pictures
back into the envelopes, then locked the file back in his briefcase.  It was
too early in the morning for this shit. 
Way
too early.  He rubbed his
blurry eyes.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing
something.  Something important.  And he didn’t believe he would find it in the
file.

* * *

11:43 AM

Joel pulled his Explorer onto the highway and headed
in toward town.  There were several things he needed at Walmart, chief among
them coffee and cigarettes.  It was kind of sad when your very existence
revolved around such things.  He sucked on the Marlboro between his lips,
savoring the flavor of the smoke as it rolled over his tongue and down his
throat.  Oh, well.  Things could always be worse.  At least it was a bright
sunny day, Luke Bryan was on the radio, and his pack of smokes was still half
full.  Yeah, things could always be a lot worse.

Almost as an afterthought, he decided he would stop
by Wade’s before he made it all the way into Cedar Hill.  Perhaps they might
work on the Mustang this afternoon, and Joel could always pick up something
while he was in town. 

He pulled into the driveway, his wheels crunching on
the dry gravel.  Wade sat on the edge of the front porch, wearing only a pair
of cutoff denim shorts.  Beside him was an opened can of Budweiser.  Shit.  He
knew what an asshole Wade could be when he was drinking, and he wondered if
stopping was such a good idea.

Joel stepped out of the truck and flicked away the
butt of his cigarette.  “’Morning.”

Wade looked up at him with red eyes.  He was
unshaven and his curly hair was matted against his head.  “Hey.”

Joel walked over and slumped down beside him. 
“Looks like you had a rough night.”  He barely got the words out before the
smell hit him—a mixture of stale beer and sweat.  And something else.

Wade gave him a crooked smile.  “Up late last
night.”  He glanced at Joel’s shirt pocket.  “Can I bum a smoke?”

Joel handed him the pack with the lighter stuffed
inside the cellophane wrapper.  “You okay?”

Wade nodded, lighting up and blowing out a plume of
smoke.  “I’m all right.”

“Where is everybody?”

Wade motioned toward the house.  “Marla’s in there. 
Derek’s at work.”

Joel looked away, toward the highway.  An old rusted
pickup was passing by; the driver—someone he didn’t recognize—waved, and Joel
threw up his hand.  “I’m on my way into town.  Thought if you needed anything
I’d pick it up for you.”

“Nah.”

“Thought you might need something for the Mustang. 
Did you want to work on it today?”

Wade took a sip of his beer, staring at the ground between
his feet.  He blinked, then looked at Joel.  “What?”

Joel studied him.  Something wasn’t quite right.  He
thought briefly of touching him, just putting a hand on his shoulder in a
gesture of brotherly concern.  He would be able to tell almost instantly.  But
he didn’t.  He couldn’t.  The thought of seeing and how much it would drain him
was too overwhelming.  “I said, do you want to work on the Mustang today?  I
can pick up something for it while I’m in town if you need me to.”

Wade shook his head.  “Nah.  Not today.”  He took
another drag off the Marlboro.

“You sure you’re all right?” Joel said.

Wade looked away, toward the fields across the
road.  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Joel stood up and pretended to yawn and stretch,
feigning indifference.  He didn’t want to appear worried; that tended to piss
Wade off, especially when he was half-lit.  “Well,” he said, “I’m going on. 
Call me later if you change your mind.”

Wade nodded.  “See ya.”

Joel was at the first stoplight in town when it
finally hit him that the underlying smell he had noticed was pot.  The
son-of-a-bitch had been high. 

It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d seen Wade
stoned.  Hell, in younger years the two of them had occasionally smoked some
weed together.  But Wade hadn’t just been stoned today, he’d been fucking
loopy.  Half out of his head.  Joel wondered what else Wade had been on.  He
almost wished now he had touched him, just to know.  He supposed it was
possible Wade was into something else, something harder, and it gave him a
spark of anger and concern.  He’d never known Wade to do anything but an
occasional joint, but that didn’t mean jack shit.  People did all kinds of
crazy things to fuck themselves up, and Wade was no exception.

Behind him, a horn bleeped impatiently, and Joel
looked up to see the light had changed to green.  He gave an apologetic wave to
his rearview mirror and sped on through the intersection.

* * *

12:05 PM

Wade watched Joel roll out of the driveway.  His
vision swam; Joel’s Explorer was just a red blur moving out onto the highway. 
He rubbed his eyes, and the lids felt as though they were moving over sand.

He’d had a rough night, all right.  After work he’d
taken a quick shower and put on some fresh clothes, thinking that maybe he and
Marla might ride into town to see a movie.  But as soon as dinner was over and
Derek was cloistered in his room with his computer, Marla started riding his
ass.  She flung a crumpled piece of paper at him, which turned out to be
Missy’s phone number.  “Who the hell is Missy?” she spat at him.

“Just a customer,” he told her.  “I was doing an
upgrade at Hidden Oaks Apartments.  She saw me working and wanted to know some
prices.  I told her I’d have the office call her back.  I forgot to give Rhonda
the note.”

She watched him, her eyes narrowed.  “Bullshit,” she
said.  “That’s bullshit and you know it.  Why couldn’t she just make a call
herself?”

He could feel the first flares of anger licking his
cheeks.  “How the hell should I know?  I just told her I’d have somebody call
her back.”

Marla’s lips had pursed so tightly they were almost
invisible.  “You’re lyin’.  You’re fuckin’ lyin’ to me.”

His hand flew out with a sudden rush of rage.  The
flat of his palm connected with her cheek with a loud smack, and she went
sprawling against the kitchen counter.  Grabbing her by the hair on the top of
the head, he jerked her face up toward his.  Blood trickled from the corner of
her mouth, and her eyes were clenched tight as she braced herself for whatever
was to come.  “Listen to me,” he said.  “Don’t you ever,
ever
talk to me
like that again.  Understand?”

She nodded with considerable effort, and the first
few tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes.

“Whatever I do outside this house is my business. 
My
business.  If I want to go rent fifty whores for a fuckin’ hour at the Ramada,
I’ll do it.  You
do not
tell me what to do.  Is that clear?”

She nodded again, her cheeks glistening with tears,
her lips smeared with blood.

Wade gave her hair one last violent tug before
pushing her away.  “You are so goddamn paranoid.  Every time I look at another
woman, you think I’m fuckin’ her.  Well, maybe I am.  If you’d spread your legs
once in a while I wouldn’t have to.”  He grabbed his keys off the hook by the
door and stomped out toward his truck.  He’d had enough of her bullshit for one
night. 

He drove into town to the Wild Horse and was soon
parked at the bar with a cold Bud in front of him.  And soon he’d had four
more.  The crowd was wild, the music was too loud, and all the women were
either ugly or with somebody.  A couple of guys that he recognized, regulars
here like himself, nodded to him from a corner booth, but he was in no mood for
conversation.  His head had begun to ache, and he just wanted to be alone, to
let the beer take the edge off everything.

A little while later, standing in the men’s room,
taking a gusher of a piss, he felt something in his pocket and realized he
still had the note with Missy’s phone number.  A rush of excitement surged
through him, and his cock began to stiffen in spite of the beer.

In a little alcove outside the restrooms, he pulled
out his phone and punched in her number.  After three rings she answered, and
her voice sent a buzz of electricity through his gut.  “Missy?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Hey, it’s Wade.  Wade Roberts.  I met you by the
pool yesterday.  Cable guy.”

“What do you want?”

“Thought I might come by and see you.  Take you up
on that swim.”

She let out a sigh.  “Do you know what time it is?”

He glanced at his watch.  It was past eleven. 
“Jesus, I’m sorry.  I just lost track of time.  You weren’t in bed, were you?”

“As a matter of fact, I was.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.  “Look, if it’s too
late—”

“I got a call from your wife today.”

His body suddenly froze.  Marla never said she’d
called
the number.  “What?”

“Yeah, so don’t ever bother me again.  I don’t have
time to waste on losers like you.”

“Missy, wait.”  But he was talking to a dead line;
she had hung up.  He shoved the phone back in his pocket.  Fucking cunt.  He
thought briefly of driving over to the apartments anyway, but that was nuts. 
He wasn’t sure which place was hers; hell, he didn’t even know her last name.

He threw some bills out on the bar for his tab, not
sure if it was even enough, and stormed out to the parking lot.  Even out here,
the pulse of the music throbbed in his head.  He slid into the truck, started
the engine, and pulled out on the street.  He didn’t know or care where he was
headed.

After about an hour of cruising up and down the
quiet residential streets, his headache had eased and he turned back toward
town, back toward the college campus.  As he got closer to the college
hangouts, which were noticeably dead this time of the year, one of the places
caught his eye.  The Capitol, which had once been a movie theater years ago,
was now a bar and dance club.  Unlike most of the other places on the street,
the Capitol seemed to be doing a booming business.  He wheeled into the lot and
parked between a Nissan and an Oldsmobile, both of which sported Greek window
decals.

He hadn’t been here since he was a kid, since it
still showed movies, and he thought that this was the place he’d come to see a
bad horror flick called
Amityville Dollhouse
.  The old ticket booth held
a mannequin, but a live burly black guy at the door was more than happy to take
Wade’s five-dollar cover charge.

Inside, the old concession stand was now the bar,
and where the auditorium had been was a huge dance floor full of people
writhing and dancing beneath pulsing, multi-colored lights.  The music blasting
over the sound system was some kind of techno dance shit, its repetitive beat
thumping at such a breakneck pace that it was impossible to tell whether the
music was driving the dancers or the dancers were driving the music.  Most of
the crowd seemed to be college age, though he was sure hardly any of them were
actually students.  The pounding bass of the music coupled with the energy of
the crowd around him was suddenly exciting, and the buzz of arousal began to
hum through his body.

He got a beer from the bar and moved through the
people, looking for somewhere to sit and watch everything.  This place was sure
a far cry from the atmosphere of the Wild Horse.  Women were everywhere, many
without men and most of them worth a second look; they were young and lively,
not the broken-down old crones that frequented the Wild Horse.  This was more
like Derek’s kind of place, and he wondered briefly if the kid had ever tried
to get in.

In a far corner, he found a tiny table and took a
seat, his gaze drifting across the dance floor.  Strobe lights were flashing
monotonously, turning the whole place into a huge pixilated orgy.  Groups of
people were dancing together, not just couples; they bounced and gyrated like
an undulating human sea under a storm of light.  He leaned against the wall,
sipping his beer and watching.

A group of girls were dancing frenetically about ten
feet away; a couple of them caught his eye and smiled.  He smiled back,
flashing his killer grin.  One of them, a blonde, leaned close to the brunette
beside her and said something into her ear; it must have been hysterical,
because they both burst out laughing.  The blonde looked at him again, and
waved him over.  He shook his head, but she waved more insistently, and he
reluctantly set down his beer and made his way out onto the floor.

“What’s your name?” the blonde asked, not stopping
her pace.

“Wade.”  He was practically screaming to be heard
above the music.

“I’m Shelley,” she said.  She motioned to the
brunette.  “This is Abby.”

Abby smiled at him from beneath her dark, kinky
curls.  “Hey.”