The_Amazing_Mr._Howard (28 page)

The P.I. beamed. “I was sure he spotted my truck when I followed him. Can’t believe the dumb bastard left the blinds up, like he wanted me to film him or something.”

“You have to admit, he did put on quite a show. I especially liked the part where he slaps her on the hip and sends her spinning.”

“Yeah, I guess if you’re into that kind of thing. Personally, I get my sex on the Internet.”

“Oh?”

“Pictures,” Stanis said, “I look at pictures.”

Mr. Howard offered a patronizing smile. “I see. Compared to yours, my life is rather ordinary and dull.”

“Most people don’t sit out in bone yards watching dwarf porn.”

“Good point.”

Stanis squirmed. He glanced around as if expecting someone to join them. “So, is this what you wanted?”

“Most definitely, but, I need you to do one last thing.”

Stanis massaged the back of his neck, the wheeze returning to his chest. “Look, I’m already nervous about this case. Christ, this guy’s a fucking cop.”

“Yes, in the video he is a fucking cop.” Mr. Howard smiled at his own joke. “What I need you to do is not difficult and will not place you in any kind of danger.”

“If he finds out about me, I’m a dead man.”

If you don’t do what I want, you’re a dead man.

“All I need is for you to leave a copy of the disc at the detective’s house. Prop it against the door in an envelope marked urgent with his wife’s name, Doris Willard, written in big letters.”

Stanis puckered his lips and blew out raw onion breath. “She’ll be pissed as hell. You really have it in for this guy. What’d he do write you a speeding ticket or something?”

“Something like that.”

“All right, I can drop off a disc. I’ll just have to be careful not to leave prints or DNA.”

“Good thinking.”

“Would you like me to send you a copy?”

Do you honestly think I’m going to provide my address?

“No, that will not be necessary, but you should keep a copy for thirty days.”

“Why thirty days?”

“Thirty days should be enough time for this video to do what I think it will. If I should need a copy, expect to hear from me before the end of the month. Our business here is concluded, yes.”

“Aren’t you going to pay me?”

“Certainly. Follow me to my car.” He stood and headed toward the path. Stanis fell in behind him, his ragged breaths rising over the sound of the insects and the running water.

“Want to borrow my flashlight?”

“Thank you, but no,” Mr. Howard said over his shoulder. “I can see just fine.”

“How? It’s darker than a Tijuana whorehouse.”

Stanis took another hit on his inhaler when they arrived at the road, the wet sound like water sucking down a drain. “How can you see in this?”

“Take it from me,” Mr. Howard said, opening the trunk on his car, “you do not want to know.” He lifted a suitcase and held it out. “Seventy-five thousand in cash.”

Stanis licked his lips. “The money’s all here right? I mean, I trust you and everything.”

“Do not trust anyone.” Mr. Howard popped open the locks on the case so the P.I. could see the neatly stacked rows of one hundred dollar bills.

“Fuck me, that’s a lot of money.”

“Yes it is, and no, I would prefer not to fuck you.” He snapped the locks closed and handed the suitcase to Stanis.

“That was just a figure of speech.”

Mr. Howard held back a smile. “Yes, I know. I just wanted to see you stumble for a response.”

“Good one.” The P.I. tossed the case inside a battered sedan. “Guess I can afford new wheels.”

“Perhaps you should invest your money.”

“What for?” Stanis asked, climbing into the car. “I may be dead tomorrow.”

Indeed, if Willard learns who you are, you will most certainly be dead.

Stanis leaned out the car. “Do you need me to call after I’ve dropped off the disc?”

“That will not be necessary.”

The P.I. gave a quick wave and slammed the door. The sedan started with a roar and backed onto the road. Mr. Howard watched until the taillights faded.

***

Mr. Howard drove east, away from the city, to the open plains of northeastern Colorado. He’d made this journey several times, but this occasion felt different, more purposeful. He passed through the same little farming towns without a moment’s thought, his attention on the task at hand. It had to end. Soon.

A veil of stars shined down on the entrance to the grasslands. He turned north, dust rising on the road behind his car. A lump rose in his throat when he spotted the cottonwood tree in the distance. It felt strange to be there without Stephanie. He wondered how her spirit was getting along now that she was reunited with her family, and if she hated him for taking her life. Perhaps she hated him for not leading the police to her grave, but the important thing was that she no longer remained in this desolate place.

He parked and retrieved a glass jar and gardening shovel from the trunk. As he approached her grave, the only evidence of a crime was a piece of yellow crime scene tape tied to a stake. The tape danced and snapped in the wind. The cops hadn’t bothered to refill the grave. He stood at the edge of the hole and remembered Stephanie lying at the bottom. The image proved unsettling and so he went to work scooping dirt from the grave into the jar. It wouldn’t be hard for the cops to match the dirt to this place, especially with traces of her bodily fluids present.

He finished filling the jar and screwed on the lid. A prayer seemed in order, but the words failed him, and so he trudged back to his car, knowing there was still much to be done. Yes, it had to end. The pieces remained in play. Time to maneuver them toward checkmate.

The morning sky was blood red, a proper hue to greet a vampire’s eyes. Mr. Howard stared out the living room window and yawned. Dead tired, he longed to crawl between warm sheets. He belonged in the dark, hidden from the world, but not on this day, not with so much left to do.

He went to his bedroom to prepare. Although he would not be in sunlight for an extended period, he must dress as if he might. No reason to throw caution to the wind at this stage. He lathered sunscreen on his face and neck before slipping into his long coat. His fedora came last. He tried to imagine what his reflection would look like if he had one. Stylish no doubt. The thought made him smile.

Inside the basement, Alicia watched him approach, her eyes red and glassy. Once again guilt tore through him at the things he must do to survive. He came before her with a heavy sigh. “Such sadness, I see in your lovely face. This is not what I wanted.”

She sniffled twice and avoided his gaze. “Do you think this is what I wanted?”

“Did you have a vision during the night?”

She nodded.

“Of your future?”

“Can we not talk about it?” she asked, looking at him. “I so much want to hate you, but I can’t because I understand you.”

Please do not forgive me. I would never ask that of you.

He reached into his coat for the tin of sleeping powder. “I must take you someplace,” he said, opening the tin.

“And for this I must sleep?”

“It is for your own good.” He placed a pinch of the powder in his palm.

“Why must life hurt?”

He touched her cheek, the way a father might comfort a crying child. “Perhaps when Christ died upon the cross, he passed his pain onto us. But death, my dear Alicia, is not painful. Dying is like floating in a warm sea, the sun bright on your face. I wish my son had allowed me to die.”

“Me too,” she said.

He couldn’t help but smile at her words. “Now close your eyes and rest.”

“Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

Her gaze locked on his face. Her eyes held the sorrow of resignation. “Don’t wake me up.”

He pulled back, lines forming on his brow. “I will not kill you.”

“I know.”

For a moment he considered letting her go, but quickly dismissed that idea. Even if he could flee, leaving Willard in a position to pursue him was not an option. “Close your eyes and fall into a dream. A sweet dream from your youth perhaps, yes?”

Her eyes closed.

“Do you see your mother in this dream? She holds your hand as you walk through a field of wildflowers.”

“I see her.”

“Feel a gentle spring breeze feather across your hair. The smell of a recent storm remains in the air to blend with the scent of the flowers. Do you smell this?”

She nodded.

He raised his hand and leaned close to her face. “A warm sun caresses the back of your neck.” He softly blew the powder toward her. “You are loved Alicia. You are most certainly loved.”

***

As he drove, Mr. Howard listened to Blue October’s gut-wrenching song about suicide, “Black Orchid.” He glanced back at Alicia asleep on the floor of the van. Life’s not for everyone, and yet, here he was, the one creature least deserving of life, playing the role of God once more. Unlike a typical serial killer, he took no pleasure in controlling others. Each tear of his victims poured over his soul like freezing rain.

His mood lightened when he was out of the noise and traffic of the city. He even managed to smile while imagining Willard’s reaction to the sex tape. He reminded Mr. Howard of Inspector Broussard, who doggedly pursued him for three years without success. Broussard’s career in law enforcement came to a sudden end when villagers discovered him passed out nude in a barn with a girl far too young. What was it about cops and perverted sex? Perhaps it took a mind that operated beyond the boundaries of normal behavior to understand the way criminals thought. Perhaps the line between acceptable and criminal was razor thin.

The interstate to Wyoming offered unobstructed views of the Rocky Mountain foothills. Fat morning clouds hovered over the peaks with the threat of an afternoon rain shower. He soaked in the daylight views, foreign to his night eyes. How different things appeared when exposed to the truth of the sun. Darkness provided lies.

He turned off onto the dirt road that led to Van Adams’s house. Van Adams enjoyed his privacy, which explained why he lived in a custom-built house on three hundred acres north of the city. Whispered rumors suggested he wanted no one to spy on his activities with the young women from the college.

After driving a couple of miles, he arrived at the estate, a sprawling ranch-style house surrounded by aspen and cottonwood trees. The exterior matched the bland personality of its owner. Mr. Howard steered off the driveway and onto the grass. He weaved around the trees until finding a concealed parking spot. Ten o’clock. Van Adams would return from church within the hour.

Mr. Howard carried the sleeping Alicia across the yard and onto the front porch. An intelligent man would protect his home with an alarm or snapping canine. Van Adams had the common sense of a skunk that liked to smell its own butt. It took but a moment to work the lock open. Mr. Howard stepped into the entryway. The trees kept the house in permanent shade. Gray settled over the big open rooms, stiff and formal with oversized furniture. Copies of Renoir, Sisley, and Bazille paintings decorated the walls. Van Adams liked to impress his guests by throwing out words like, “The Café Guerbois crowd and
en plein
air.” The truth was, a monkey could throw its shit on a canvas and Van Adams would buy the picture if he thought it’d help him get laid. Without his gold-plated cock to attract the unsuspecting, Van Adams’s palm would be as callused as that of a longshoreman.

Mr. Howard carefully laid Alicia on the couch and went back to the van. He returned with rope and the jar of soil collected at the grasslands. As he sprinkled dirt in various parts of the house, he remembered the last Christmas party with Van Adams. The bastard was hornier than a buck chasing a doe in heat, his attention focused on Maria Hernandez, who worked in the finance department. The married Hernandez managed to resist Van Adams’s advances for a while, a look of discomfort on her face whenever he pressed up behind her and massaged her shoulders. Then she and the assistant dean vanished for nearly an hour before emerging from a back room, faces flushed. Two weeks later, she received a layoff notice. There was a price to be paid for playing the Devil’s game.

After spreading dirt around the family room and entry, he picked the basement door lock and stepped down into the subterranean chamber. On the walls, dozens of black and white photographs depicted graphic bondage scenes. Naked women tied and stretched into degrading poses, black leather hoods concealing their identities. Clothespins pinched breasts. Needles pierced places not meant to be pierced. There was blood. There was agony. And this is what Van Adams wanted to see. To him, women were nothing more than objects, no more alive than an inflatable sex doll. What he couldn’t know is the cruel photographs, and the bizarre scene they created, would be his ultimate downfall. Now, he was glad he had snuck into the basement during the Christmas party and discovered them. A picture was worth a thousand words and these photographs told volumes.

Mr. Howard sprinkled dirt around the basement floor and on the black leather massage table with stirrups. When he finished, Mr. Howard removed Stephanie’s locket from his coat pocket. He opened it and stared at her photograph. “Do not worry, Stephanie, the locket will belong to you once more, I swear. I want nothing more from you than what you’ve already given me.” He placed the locket on the table, collected the jar of dirt, and made his way upstairs.

He carried Alicia down the basement stairs, huffing and puffing as he went. She settled against his chest with a soft whimper like a child in the midst of a nightmare. Retrieving two dining room chairs, he brought them downstairs. He sat Alicia on one of the chairs, stretched her arms behind her, and used rope to secure them. He then tied her ankles to the chair. She stirred but remained asleep.

Back upstairs, he sank onto a leather recliner and waited. It wouldn’t be long now. He could feel the pending conflict in his blood, in the way the hairs stood on his arms, and the back of his neck. He had finished his analysis and moved accordingly. The queen was in
en prise
and the endgame in sight. His breathing slowed. He focused on the task at hand. No mistakes. He had come too far to screw up at this late hour.