Authors: Wayne Batson
“What about a contact number?” G tilted his head. “I will make a few calls, see if I can find out which dealer sold your porthole yacht.”
“Thank you, G,” I said. “I appreciate that. You can reach me at my hotel in Destin.” I gave him the number. Then I left.
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The testosterone years.
Deanna Rezvani smirked, remembering the phrase she used to describe her first three years in the Bureau. She’d met a dizzying array of men during that time. She looked away from her laptop’s screen and laughed. A few of them were more memorable than others.
There was enigmatic Rolf Cursade, the genius criminologist who’d cracked the “bloodletting code” of a ritualistic killer who called himself
the Serpent.
Rolf was nearly as much a predator as the killers he chased, and he wanted everyone to know it, especially the ladies. He wore a choker necklace adorned with sharks’ teeth and carried a knife big enough to shame Crocodile Dundee.
Rolf could flip a switch and get inside a killer’s mind. And while in “whack-mode,” as his somewhat creeped out colleagues called it, Rolf could often plot the killer’s next move well in advance. Some thought Rolf was crazy, but everyone thought he was brilliant.
But Rolf wanted trophies,
Dee remembered,
not girlfriends.
Dee’s study partner in the academy, Nathaniel Petrikin, was another memorable man. When he was just five, Nathaniel had promised his beloved Momma he would join the Bureau because he knew an Eff-bee-yie man had rescued his grandfather from a bunch of clansmen intent on a lynching. Nathaniel had been true to his word. First in his class at the academy, he’d breezed into the Bureau. But at every turn, even with all the Bureau talent spotters trying to recruit him for leadership roles, Nathaniel stayed in the field. He wanted to fight crime at ground level where things can get dirty. His mother’s rosary in one pocket, a tiny Gideon Bible in the other, Nathaniel was a good man. A good man who got married halfway through his first year on the job.
Special Agent Gerard Stephen Harris was another sort of man. Granite jaw, glinting blue eyes, and a chiseled physique, Agent Harris was stunningly handsome. The man had a way of shaping himself to get what he wanted, a
chameleon
with an approach for every person and every situation. He cowed other field agents and bulled through jurisdiction disputes. He talked training with Deputy Director Barnes and spoke politics with Director Peluso. And even though Rez thought of him as slimy, she had to admit, Agent Harris was smooth around women. Charismatic, statuesque, and bold, he could walk into a room full of beautiful women and take his pick with no more effort than selecting a peach in the produce aisle. Cursade, Petrikin, Harris—they were remarkable men.
But Dee had never met anyone like Ghost.
Putting her finger on exactly why proved a daunting task. He wasn’t strikingly handsome.
Certainly not homely though
, thought Dee. Aside of his imposing size and curiously pale skin, there really wasn’t anything unusual about his looks. But Ghost carried a powerful presence. It was as if the man had a kind of inner might that radiated from him, even when he was still and silent. And when he spoke, his words echoed stark white purity…innocence. He seemed without pretense, without guile, and utterly unafraid. Toward the end of their time sitting in the Motel 6 lobby, Dee had found herself trusting him, in spite of her initial suspicions.
Dee shrugged, turned back to the laptop, and let her eyes linger for a moment on the horrid Smiling Jack photos. Blade. Blood. Ghastly smile.
Work thoughts, Deanna. Think work thoughts.
She’d already dusted the camera, inside and out, and sent digital renderings of the prints to the Bureau for matching. She’d just begun to upload the photos from the camera’s memory and clicked over to see the status bar.
Taking longer than usual for a handful of pictures,
she thought.
She watched the status bar and listened absently to the muted ramblings from CNN on her room’s TV: something about conservative Senator Karch Ridgeway’s bid for the Presidency and for the upcoming Supreme Court decision on abortion. But CNN scarcely registered in her conscious mind.
There was something else about Ghost, something that wouldn’t let Dee put aside her doubt completely.
Maybe it’s my imagination,
Dee thought. Something about the way he walked…or maybe the intensity in his green-eyed gaze, just shy of ferocity. He seemed coiled like a spring, or like a sleek panther ready to pounce. Dee had no doubt that this man could be dangerous. She had no doubt that he could kill if he had to. And she felt certain that he had killed before. Was this Ghost the killer they called Smiling Jack? She’d thought so before they’d met. He’d altered her opinion somewhat, but she wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss the possibility.
She blinked, brought back to focus by movement on her screen. The PhotoScan icon bounced in the sidebar dock. Rez clicked it to stop its bouncing. The photos had all uploaded. Rez scanned down the list of files…and then froze.
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I had a lot to think about on the bus. I had underestimated G. He was good. Good enough to fool most people. Just not good enough to fool me. When he typed in the correct registration number for the yacht I’d seen, his smile lost a little of its charm. For just a moment, there was a subtle change in the tension in the corners of his mouth. There was a peculiar stillness in his eyes also. It reminded me eerily of the change in someone’s eyes when they die.
But G had recovered swiftly, and his next move was genius. The flourish of his right hand
almost
distracted me enough to miss him turning his monitor with his left hand. It was like a cruise ship magician holding up a gold coin for the audience to see while slipping something from his coat pocket. I almost missed it. Someone had purchased that Sun Odyssey 42DS from Spinnaker Sales. But whoever it was, G didn’t want me to see his name.
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“I don’t know,” said G into his cell phone. “He said his name was John Spector. But he asked about the boat.”
G listened for a moment and then replied. “He’s staying at the friggin’ Motel 6 in Destin. I should have known he wasn’t buying. He didn’t look like the sailing type. White as a ghost, definitely a snowbird, but I couldn’t place his accent. Big guy too, looked like a bouncer.”
Shouts erupted from the phone. G held it away from his ear until the yelling died down. “No, no way. I didn’t give him anything. He doesn’t know Jack! He’s not a local cop, that’s for sure. White as white—you should’a seen him. I don’t think he was FBI either. Didn’t try to scare me with a shield or anything. One weird thing, he had this silver case. Looked like something from the movies: a sniper case or nuclear detonator, some crap like that.”
More shouts from the phone. G endured them and said, “He had the registration number, said he’d seen the 42 on the Gulf. Now that’s legit. He knew about the custom windows. He didn’t say any more. Uh, huh, Destin Motel 6. As far as I know, he’s alone. Hey, listen, you’re not angry at me, are you? You know I wouldn’t cross you. Okay, okay. Sure.” G pressed the red button on his cell and ran a finger under the collar of his shirt. It felt suddenly very tight.
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I walked into the Motel 6 lobby at quarter past nine, and I was thinking that I ought to switch hotels soon. I decided to give it the night. Mr. Granderson was at his usual post behind the desk. He looked up, saw me, and backed up a step.
“Oh, Mr. Spector, uhm, or is it Willoughby?”
I definitely needed to switch hotels. “What’s the problem?”
He squinted like he was bracing for a punch. “The-there’s no problem,” he muttered. “It’s just that you have messages. Two of them.” He handed me two slips of paper. I thanked him and walked away. The first message was from Doctor Shepherd at the hospital. The second was from the FBI agent, Deanna Rezvani. Both were marked: Urgent.
Chapter 11
I passed the business center, half expecting to see the old man ignoring his granddaughter again, but I found it empty. Maybe he finally figured out that little girls like to go outside and play.
My room felt empty too—thankfully—not even a trace of Shade-vibe, so I put my case on the bed and picked up the phone. Dr. Shepherd first. Got voice mail. Agent Rezvani next. Voice mail again. So much for urgent.
I took a shower, making the water so hot it stung. Steam enveloped me. I let my head rest on the shower wall. The resetting began. I felt my flesh tighten. Everything about me began to feel sturdier and stronger.
But I was still angry. I’d been at it two days now, and while some of the evidence I’d turned up was promising—especially the sailboat dealer—I still hadn’t rescued anyone. Those women in the pictures were still out there, kenneled up like beasts. I pounded the wall with a taut fist.
Inexcusable, unfathomable, egregious—evil.
A flash of images—the blade, the creepy smile, the kennels. My stomach lurched, and I almost lost it. Those women…precious, precious lives being degraded like that and snuffed out. Beautiful children with hopes and dreams—each life of inestimable value—suddenly gone. I thought of the killer. I pounded the wall, caving a square of fiberglass inward.
“Ignorant, bloodthirsty, fool!” the words blasted from my lungs. I came that close, but I caught myself before it was too late. There’d be a time for unleashing all of the pent up indignation, the righteous anger, the collective fury of retribution—the rage. But for now, I needed to think clearly. It started and ended with the photos. What was I missing?
The FBI files revealed that the original Smiling Jack photos had been released over a span of four years. In the earliest photos, there were always shots of the victims to come, threats that he would continue to kill. The second batch of photos began to appear four years after the last photo of the first series. And, it had been four years since the last photo of the last series before the photos I’d discovered on the camera. What was it about four years?
The photos I’d obtained on the camera continued the pattern. And now, according to Agent Rezvani, the shots were all over the web. Jack was making a new power play. He’d murdered the woman with red hair, and rubbed it in our faces. But there were young women still alive. Five, if the number of doghouses meant anything.
Until more photos surfaced, I couldn’t know for certain. But, I needed to operate under the assumption that every day I delayed, was another day of hell for women who were still alive. I wondered about that.
What is their existence like?
Being treated like animals, degraded, and likely abused—I dared not imagine the potential variety of horrors. And yet, in the photos, the women wore that same ghastly, contented smile. Drugged? But what sort of drug would keep someone grinning while her life’s blood drained away? That would be another question for Dr. Shepherd.
The steaming water poured down either side of my neck. For a moment, I imagined it was my own blood draining from a gaping throat wound. I shook the thought from my head and pounded my fist once more. Then I stood still. The moment I’d struck the wall, I thought I’d heard something. It wasn’t the fiberglass cracking. It was a kind of dull thump. I thought maybe it was the shower pipes behind the wall. I turned off the water for a moment to listen. I didn’t hear anything. I put the water on again and heard nothing more.
The heat and the steam soothed my muscles and helped me think. The resetting was complete. And yet, I lingered in the hot water a little while longer. Perhaps the greatest nagging mystery was how women such as those in the photos, attractive women by this society’s standards, could be abducted without anyone reporting them missing? Maybe foreign slave trade or prostitution, maybe the bowels of the pornographic industry could provide such victims. The FBI had looked into those possibilities, hadn’t they? Or were they handcuffed by international law? But it had to be something like that. You don’t just give up on a loved one. I told myself that, and I almost believed it. But the FBI had given up. Maybe some of the victim’s had family who had given up too. But not one family member had ever come forward to identify a victim. I shook my head. That just didn’t seem possible.
And why the display? Was Smiling Jack simply saying, “See what I can do?” Was he flaunting his god-complex and daring the world to catch him? Or was there something more?
It happened again. I shut the water off. This time I was certain I’d heard something. Not a thump, more like a melodic trill. The room phone.
I crashed out of the shower stall, whip-cracked a towel around my waist, careened around the bed, and snagged the phone mid ring.
“John Spector.”
“Mr. Spector, this is Doc Shepherd from PCBH. I have some information about the surgical implement you showed me.”
Doc Shepherd,
I liked the way he said that. Like the Old West, Doc Holliday. “That’s very good news,” I said. “What have you discovered?”
“I think it best if we talk in person. Could you meet me again at the hospital?”
“Name the time.”
“I’ve got procedures all morning. How about 2:30?”
“I’ll be there. Just make sure—” Something was wrong. The room had gone cold, and it wasn’t just air on my wet skin.