Authors: C.E. Lawrence
Silent Kills (12 page)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
By the time Lee reached the East Village he was chilled to the bone. He ached all over, and his forehead felt feverish. The two blocks home from the subway seemed to take forever. By the time he dragged himself up the two flights to his apartment, his forehead was hot and dry and his throat burned with thirst.
He drank a large glass of water and put on the kettle for tea before peeling off his wet clothes and changing into his pajamas. He kept thinking about the phone call—the flat, cold voice running through his head in an endless loop. He was seized with a sudden fit of shivering.
“Damn,” he muttered as the kettle screeched from the kitchen. “That’s all I need, to get sick right now.”
He lay on the couch with the hot tea, pulled a blanket over his legs, and took a sip. It was strong and dark and muscular—
a man’s tea
, as Susan Morton would say. She was another dangerous woman, far more dangerous than Elena Krieger. And now she was married to his best friend. Housecats could retract their claws, but cheetahs couldn’t—which made Susan Morton a cheetah.
a man’s tea
, as Susan Morton would say. She was another dangerous woman, far more dangerous than Elena Krieger. And now she was married to his best friend. Housecats could retract their claws, but cheetahs couldn’t—which made Susan Morton a cheetah.
To distract himself, he turned on the television. The evening news was just coming on. The local anchor—dapper, blond, unnaturally tanned—wore a serious expression.
“Uh-oh,” Lee muttered. “Here it comes.”
“Good evening. Our lead story is a disturbing one. The Van Cortlandt Vampire has taken another victim.” He went on to describe how Liza Dobbins had been found at Woodlawn, complete with all the medical details. Sergeant Quinlan’s precautions had been in vain—once again, the press had details about the case they should not have.
“Damn,” Lee muttered. “Who the hell—”
The phone interrupted him. Its ring sent splinters of fear through his spine. He hesitated but decided to answer. To his relief, it was Butts.
“You seein’ this crap on TV?” he said, skipping the niceties of greeting.
“Yeah.”
“Man, if I ever find out who the leak is—”
Lee thought briefly about sharing his concerns about Susan Morton, but dismissed the idea.
“These damn vultures,” Butts went on. “Are you listening to what they’re saying?”
“I was watching the news when you called,” Lee answered, wondering if Butts would get the hint, but he didn’t.
“I mean, I believe in the First Amendment, but come
on
!”
on
!”
Unlike Detective Butts, Lee had nothing against the media, but he felt the heat of their hunger for a story—something, anything—to print, put on the air, make the column, fill the time slot. They were avid, rapacious—an empty maw waiting to be filled. For them, news was happening all the time, even when it wasn’t. And here was the luxury of a real story—a lurid, juicy one, the kind to lead off the early evening show.
“Hey,” Butts said when Lee was taken by a fit of coughing, “you okay?”
“I seem to have caught a chill.”
“Hey, Doc, we need you—take it easy, huh?”
“I’m going to bed early.”
“Good, good—that’s the idea. Feel better, huh?”
“Thanks.”
After he hung up he muted the volume on the television and pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. He thought he should probably take some aspirin, but he was too exhausted and too comfortable to move. Drowsiness settled over him as he contemplated what a complicated instrument the human mind was, so finely calibrated and yet infinite in its capacity to misfire. The serial offender was an example of the mind gone horribly, disastrously wrong—twisted into a hideous form, like the burned metal frame of a car after a consuming fire.
He picked up the remote and idly channel surfed, with the sound still off. Rummaging through the ravaged minds of serial killers was like visiting the wrecked shells of burned automobiles littering a junkyard. They had been discarded, cast off by the people who should have been their caretakers, tumbled and torn by life in ways no human being was equipped to survive. And yet they did survive, re-forming their unconscious lives to accommodate the horrors they suffered, contorting themselves into distorted shapes in order to absolve their world of the cruelties done to them.
He pushed the remote button a few more times until he came to Turner Classic Movies, where the original
Dracula
was playing, with a new score by Philip Glass. Lee watched as Bela Lugosi bent down over the prostrate form of a young woman sleeping in bed, his kohl-lined eyes shining with mad intensity. She continued sleeping soundly as he prepared to bite her neck, the camera focused on his obviously lipstick-covered mouth.
Dracula
was playing, with a new score by Philip Glass. Lee watched as Bela Lugosi bent down over the prostrate form of a young woman sleeping in bed, his kohl-lined eyes shining with mad intensity. She continued sleeping soundly as he prepared to bite her neck, the camera focused on his obviously lipstick-covered mouth.
“Nice makeup,” Lee murmured. Lugosi seemed to be wearing more cosmetics than his leading lady. It was startling how blatantly sexual the image was, especially for the early thirties, when the movie was made. They were really playing up the notion of the count as an alluring and sexually ambiguous creature. Lee noticed that Lugosi pursued his male victims with an equally ravenous passion, drawing his long black cape over them at the moment of consummation.
The killer Lee sought was not a glamorous figure, except perhaps in his own twisted mind. But there was no comfort in his warped identity. Malformed by the heat of his suffering, the horrors of childhood replayed in his mind, over and over, until his behavior repeated his past.
Lee understood the terrible furnace that burned day and night in serial offenders’ brains, and he pitied them. But he was also prepared to hunt them down tirelessly, a Javert in an eternal search for his Jean Valjean. His pity was deep, but his need to avenge his sister’s death was greater. He, too, was caught in an endless loop, a drama replaying in his head that could not be stilled by time. He shared with his prey the inability to turn off a drive that burned deeper into his brain as time dragged on.
On the television screen, Count Dracula took another victim, and another soul entered the twilight existence between life and death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Davey stepped onto the subway and took a seat next to an elderly black woman clutching a well-worn cloth bag on her lap
.
She wore a dress with a green and orange floral pattern and a little matching hat. She looked weary and half asleep, and Davey felt sorry for her, riding the subway alone at this hour. No one on the sparsely occupied car looked happy. Anyone riding the train at this hour in the morning was either on the way home from a night of debauchery or on the way to work. Those people not gazing off into space or reading had the usual stony expression he thought of as the Subway Stare. The subways were not the glamorous part of the city. Rich people might not use them, but real people did—the ones who were the guts and bone and sinew of New York, who actually made the city run.
.
She wore a dress with a green and orange floral pattern and a little matching hat. She looked weary and half asleep, and Davey felt sorry for her, riding the subway alone at this hour. No one on the sparsely occupied car looked happy. Anyone riding the train at this hour in the morning was either on the way home from a night of debauchery or on the way to work. Those people not gazing off into space or reading had the usual stony expression he thought of as the Subway Stare. The subways were not the glamorous part of the city. Rich people might not use them, but real people did—the ones who were the guts and bone and sinew of New York, who actually made the city run.
Davey liked the subways, especially at night. They were mysterious and spooky. He loved the unknowabil-ity of the subway tunnels, miles of man-made caverns, steel and concrete arteries twisting through the bowels of the city. He also loved darkened movie theaters and amusement park rides through blackened caverns and canals, the only light coming from bulbs that pulsed gently, casting a dim reflection on the surrounding walls.
He smiled to himself. The “glamorous” people weren’t better than anyone else. All their Madison Avenue furnishings and expensive tans and name-brand cookware couldn’t save them from the human condition. They suffered just like everyone else—and not always as nobly as their Guatemalan house cleaner with three kids to feed.
They might chase the wrinkles from their pampered faces with Botox, and tone their sagging flesh though constant vigilance at the gym, but inside, where it counted, everyone was the same. There was no magic in the moonlight reserved for the wealthy.
We are what we do,
he thought, and if what you do is spend money, then that’s what you are—someone who buys things. And it’s not much of a step from being someone who buys things to being someone who buys people. No one would ever buy him, though. He would show them—he would show them all.
We are what we do,
he thought, and if what you do is spend money, then that’s what you are—someone who buys things. And it’s not much of a step from being someone who buys things to being someone who buys people. No one would ever buy him, though. He would show them—he would show them all.
He crossed his legs and turned his head to smile at the woman sitting next to him. She was one of the real people. After all, he thought, we’re all abandoned by the God who made us, left adrift on a cold rock in the cheerless vastness of space, just as Frankenstein’s monster was left to wander the arctic ice floes.
During the long ride home, Davey pondered what form his revenge would take. He had some ideas, and he took a perverse pleasure in lingering on the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of the bar thug. He touched a finger to the graze on his forehead. The nice singer girl had offered to clean it off for him—but he refused. He didn’t like other people touching him; they might contaminate him. He clung to his bitterness like a life raft, as though it would save him from drowning in a deep well of self-loathing. Focusing on the wrongs of others was a welcome distraction from the hole deep in his center. And he vowed to make the man regret his cruelty. By the time Davey was done with him, the stupid bastard would be sorry he ever laid a hand on him.
He looked at the lady next to him with the worn cloth bag and jaunty little hat. He wondered what she would say if she knew she was sitting next to a monster.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Lying in bed sweating with fever, Lee couldn’t sleep, so he pulled out his laptop. Propping it up on his knees, he opened the web browser, Googled “steampunk,” and got 217,439 results.
He clicked on the first one, a Wikipedia article with pretty much the same information Sergeant Ruggles had already told them. There were some interesting pictures of steampunk attire, though. Goggles were ubiquitous, and so was leather—boots, corsets, hats, anything that could be made from it. He saw women in what looked like Victorian bondage outfits, men dressed as aviators, scientists, and explorers, sporting the ever-present goggles.
One of the links was to a steampunk chat room called The Victorian Adventurer Club. He decided to log in and join the chat. The first job was to create a User ID. After some thought, he chose “MastCaptain,” hoping it evoked a manly Victorian sailor and not a porn star.
After typing in a password, he joined the chat room. Steamgirl and MrJack were having a discussion about the quality of life in Victorian England.
Steamgirl:
what makes u think it ws so dangerus?
MrJack:
u hve no idea—chcks like u wld be dead
Steamgirl:
sez who?
MrJack:
throat cut in a back alley somewhere
what makes u think it ws so dangerus?
MrJack:
u hve no idea—chcks like u wld be dead
Steamgirl:
sez who?
MrJack:
throat cut in a back alley somewhere
At that point, Airshippilot intervened. He had apparently been lurking in the corner watching until now.
Airshippilot:
leve her alone
MrJack:
whats ur prob?
Airshippilot:
u r my problem
MrJack:
oo, Im so scared
Airshippilot:
u totally shld be
MrJack:
o really?
Airshippilot:
u hve no idea who I am
Steamgirl:
y dont u 2 dweebs stop fighting?
MrJack:
u shld be grateful to ur pansy boy for rescuing u
Steamgirl:
yeah, right
leve her alone
MrJack:
whats ur prob?
Airshippilot:
u r my problem
MrJack:
oo, Im so scared
Airshippilot:
u totally shld be
MrJack:
o really?
Airshippilot:
u hve no idea who I am
Steamgirl:
y dont u 2 dweebs stop fighting?
MrJack:
u shld be grateful to ur pansy boy for rescuing u
Steamgirl:
yeah, right
Lee had an impulse to join the conversation, but a stronger instinct told him to hang back, so he continued to observe from the shadows.
Airshippilot:
i knw where u live
Steamgirl:
me?
Airshippilot:
no, him
MrJack: BFD
Airshippilot:
u’ll see
MrJack:
this is me quaking in my boots
Airshippilot:
hey, Capt, wassup w/u?
Steamgirl:
yeah, r u a weirdo or what?
i knw where u live
Steamgirl:
me?
Airshippilot:
no, him
MrJack: BFD
Airshippilot:
u’ll see
MrJack:
this is me quaking in my boots
Airshippilot:
hey, Capt, wassup w/u?
Steamgirl:
yeah, r u a weirdo or what?
Lee’s palms were sweating and he was feeling dizzy—though maybe that was from the fever. He wasn’t sure what to type—but just then the phone rang. The caller ID said FIONA
.
.
He picked up. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, dear,” she said after a pointed pause. Fiona Campbell disapproved of caller ID. Lee knew this, but sometimes he couldn’t resist yanking her chain, as they said in certain parts of Jersey.
But her part of the Delaware Valley was considerably more upscale than places like Weehawken or Kearny or North Arlington, which had large Irish and Italian populations some of whose fathers and grandfathers still spoke the mother tongue. Fiona Campbell’s mother tongue was English, and though she grew up in the hills of Scotland, her ancestors were not potato farmers—or so she claimed. Her Scottish lilt gave her more cachet, if anything, in her Waspy community. People on the East Coast had a different attitude toward Scots and Brits than they did the Irish, who were still considered ruffians in some social circles.
“Did I wake you up?” she said, sounding peeved rather than apologetic.
“No. I was just resting.”
“Are you sick?”
It was an accusation. Her Fiona Radar was on full beam, zeroing in on him.
“No,” he lied. “I’m fine.”
She gave that little snort he was so familiar with.
I don’t believe you, but I’m through with this foolishness.
I don’t believe you, but I’m through with this foolishness.
“I just called to see if you were still coming out this weekend.”
“I’m planning to.”
“Good.” The slight pause told him she had something to tell him but was hesitant about saying it.
“Was there another reason you called?”
“No, why?”
Oh, God
. Was this going to be one of these cryptic calls, where she expected him to coax it out of her? He didn’t have the energy to play that game right now, and he wanted to get back to the Internet chat room.
. Was this going to be one of these cryptic calls, where she expected him to coax it out of her? He didn’t have the energy to play that game right now, and he wanted to get back to the Internet chat room.
“Kylie’s looking forward to seeing you.” Kylie was his niece, Laura’s only child. She was a four-year-old when her mother disappeared.
“I’m looking forward to seeing her.”
Another pause.
“Look, Mom,” he said, “I have to—”
He was interrupted by a sudden coughing fit. He held the phone away, but Fiona had the ears of a bat.
“Look,” she said, “you’re obviously not well. Why don’t we talk about this another time?”
As curious as he was about what she had to say, Lee wanted to return to the online chat. Feeling guilty, he said, “Okay, Mom—I was just about to go to bed.” A half-truth: he was in bed already, but far from sleep.
“All right, dear,” she replied forlornly. That was a new one—Fiona Campbell sounding forlorn. “Call me tomorrow and let me know how you’re feeling.”
“I will, Mom.”
“Get some rest.”
“Thanks, I will,” he said, and hung up. Something was on her mind, he knew, but he didn’t have time to coax it out of her.
He logged back onto his computer, but when he got back to the chat room, all three of the others were gone.
“Damn!” he muttered, and popped a couple of Benadryl. He pulled the blankets up to his chin, lay back on the pillow, and the phone rang again. Without looking at the caller ID, he picked up. “Yeah, Mom?”
There was a brief pause, then a low chuckle. The voice by now was all too familiar. Lee sat bolt upright, all his senses hyper alert.
“So now I’m your mother?” the voice said. “How about that? Or are you having a drug-induced delusion?”
Lee took a deep breath. “If you have something to say to me, have the guts to say it face-to-face.”
“Oh, what would be the fun in
that
? Sweet dreams.”
that
? Sweet dreams.”
The line went dead. Lee hit *69 but knew the results—the number was blocked. He carefully wrote down the conversation word for word, then he unplugged the phone jack, got up, and took a Xanax. For about twenty minutes he watched the headlights of passing cars slide across the wall, until drowsiness overcame him and he sank into a dead sleep.
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