I Hunt Killers (25 page)

“Is that what this is to you? Retirement? Came a little earlier than you expected, didn’t it?”

Billy smiled that warm killer’s smile again. “Did it?”

For long moments, they gazed at each other across the table and through the imaginary fence. Billy unfolded his hands and rested his fists on the table. Jazz could see new prison tats on his father’s knuckles—fresh, from the looks of them. Raw.

L-O-V-E spelled out on his right fist. F-E-A-R spelled on the left.

“Nice ink,” Jazz said.

A shrug. “Brand-new. Glad you like ’em. Look here: You ain’t gotta worry about anyone killin’ your daddy in here, Jasper. Ain’t gonna happen. I guaran-damn-tee it. I got respect in here. You talked about that ‘pecking order.’ Well, it don’t peck me. They save that for the real bastards. It’s not like I hurt
kids
.”

Jazz bristled. That liar! That hypocrite! He was probably giving Billy exactly what he wanted, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t care what kind of mind game Billy Dent was playing; he couldn’t let a comment like that go.

“No kids? What about George Harper?”

“George Harper…” Billy stared at the ceiling as if trying to place the name. Which was bull, because Billy had a photographic memory and total recall. “Oh. Right,” he said after a moment or two of pretense. “Hell, son—that kid looked nineteen, twenty, easy. You saw the pictures. You know he didn’t look fifteen.” He shook his head, clearly pleased with the reaction he’d managed to provoke in Jazz. “They grow up so fast, you know? Like you did, Jasper-boy. You ever think of having kids, Jasper? Giving me a grandbaby? Something for me to live for? I know I got a bunch of life sentences, but with science the way it is, hell, maybe I’ll live ’em all. What do you think?”

The idea of having children nauseated Jazz. To pass down the genetic
mistake
that was his grandmother’s madness, his father’s madness, his own madness…No. That would not happen. He would not create the next generation’s Billy Dent.

“I bet I know what you’re thinking, Jasper,” Billy said, his voice low and seductive and knowing. It was the perfect sociopath’s voice, and Jazz hated it because it was so like his own. He’d heard himself use it with teachers who needed to be persuaded of things. With G. William and Melissa Hoover. Hell, he might as well just admit it—with
everyone
. It was as natural as blinking, as natural as falling asleep.

“You’re thinking you ain’t gonna give the world no more Dents. I hear that. I understand. But it ain’t always your decision. You got a little piece of tail you like to bang? Handsome boy like you, all silver-tongued, those little girls don’t stand a chance, Jasper. They line up for a taste of your dick, don’t they? Don’t they?”

Jazz shook his head before he could stop himself. Damn it! He had sworn to himself that he would give his father neither information nor satisfaction, and now, with one movement, he’d surrendered both.

“You ain’t lookin’ at the line, then. That’s good. You got one girl. One special girl. That’s good, Jasper. Men like us, we like our consistency, you know what I mean? Fewer surprises that way. You plow a lotta fields, you never know where there’s gonna be a stone. You stick to one field, you get to know it. You know the stones and the ruts and the pits.

“But here’s the thing, Jasper. I bet you’re a nice, responsible kid, ’cause I raised you that way, but are you always the one buyin’ the rubbers? Hmm? Or maybe she’s on that pill? ’Cause you can’t always trust ’em, Jasper. You look at them rubbers real close-like, see? You watch her take that pill, Jasper. Hell”—he roared with laughter—“how you think
you
was born?

“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” Billy went on, leaning forward, leaning in so far that Jazz thought for sure that he must have crossed the imaginary fence—he
must
have!—but the door stayed closed and no one came in to rescue him. “You were the biggest surprise of my life, Jasper. I was so angry at your momma. At first. Won’t tell you the things I considered doing to her because they might disturb you, boy, and I ain’t gonna do that. I know how sensitive you are. But then you were born, Jasper. You came sliding out easy as you please, didn’t cause your momma any pain, hardly any labor. Just come sliding right out, practically into my arms, my boy, my son, my future. So I forgave your momma for what she done, for her deception.”

“What did you do to Mom?” Jazz asked, his voice strangled, his throat tight. He didn’t mean to ask it. He didn’t
want
to ask it, but he was helpless, wrapped up in Billy Dent’s spell, just like all of Billy’s other victims, for surely Jazz was as much a victim as the rest of them. Surely that was true?

“Do? What did I do to your mother?” A shrug. “Nothing.”

—just like cutting—

—good boy—

“What did you make
me
do?” Jazz whispered.

Billy grinned.

“What did you make me do? Did you make me kill my mother?”

Billy laughed. “Don’t you remember?”

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. His memory—his poor, abused, fragmented memory. He could remember Billy skinning Rusty, could remember the quicklime lessons, could remember so much horror, but couldn’t remember the most important thing of all. He couldn’t remember—

—do it!

—cut—

the knife

It was Mom. I cut Mom with the knife. Billy made me.

Jazz felt the room spinning around him. This was crazy. A mistake. A huge one. He was insane to have come here. Billy Dent was the master of manipulation, the king of not just the penitentiary, but also of the psychic spaces between father and son. He was lord of Jazz’s own mind. After all, hadn’t Billy built that mind? Hadn’t he sired Jazz, raised him, shaped and guided him like any father would? Wasn’t Jazz his father’s creature?

Billy. Billy in the past, urging Jazz with the knife. Billy in the present, grinning still, now whispering: “What’s her name, Jasper? Tell Dear Old Dad your little pussy’s name. I want to think of how happy you are, and I need to have a name to go with it. Tell me her name.”

Connie
, Jazz thought, but he would not let himself say it. He couldn’t sully her name by letting it anywhere near Billy Dent’s ears and brain. He couldn’t bear the thought of Billy Dent knowing that name, much less speaking it out loud.

“Tell me her name, son.”

Connie…

And that brought to mind what she’d said before. About how he didn’t have to be his dad, how he could rise above his own upbringing.
Sons aren’t their fathers. Not the good, not the bad. Sons get second chances. You don’t have to be what your dad is. You don’t have his eyes, and you don’t have to have his life.

“I’m a virgin,” he told Billy.

Billy snorted with disgust and leaned back. Jazz felt as though the room had suddenly been flooded with pure oxygen—he could breathe so much more easily now.

“No. No, you ain’t. You gonna lie to me, we ain’t got nothing to discuss,” Billy said.

Jazz didn’t care that Billy thought it was a lie. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it had broken the spell, made it possible for Jazz to think again.

It had put power back on Jazz’s side of the imaginary fence.

“I’m sorry,” he said with as much contrition as he could muster. “I shouldn’t have lied. I’m not a virgin. Her name’s”—
Heidi Linda Rae Delores Juanita Chelsea Tonya
—“Tonya.”

“Tonya?” Billy frowned. “Killed me a Tonya once. Perfect little titties. Fake redhead. Hate that.”

“I remember,” Jazz said. “I remember the trophy.”

Pleased, Billy leaned forward again. “Tell me.”

“Leather gloves,” Jazz said. “Kid gloves. So brown they were almost red. They were so smooth and soft. I remember imagining that was what a woman felt like.”

Billy chuckled. “You got my memory, that’s for sure, Jasper. But you got your momma’s way with words. Damn, I miss her.”

“I used to put them on. In the rumpus room. I never told you because I thought you’d be mad.”

“Playing with your daddy’s toys.”

“I would wear the gloves and touch my cheek. My lips. I would imagine that’s what it would feel like—”

“To be with a woman,” Billy finished, his eyes dancing. “And now? Now that you’ve been with a woman? Is that what it was like?”

“No. It’s better. Better. But not as good as it can be. I know. I remember that from what you taught me. Sometimes, when I’m with”—
Connie
—“Tonya, I want to see what you told me about: the fear.”

“It’ll come, son,” Billy whispered. “In time, it’ll come. I promise you.”

They stared at each other across the table for long, long moments. Jazz wondered how long he could keep it up. How long could he pretend to be in Billy’s thrall? How long could he pretend to be aroused by these thoughts? Worst of all—
was
he pretending? Could anyone really fake this?

“Anyway, Jasper,” Billy said, breaking the suspense. “I’m glad you’re gettin’ your dick wet. I should’ve brought you a girl a long time ago. That was neglectful of me, and I apologize for it. For that and nothing else.”

“That’s fine.”

“What brings you to see Dear Old Dad, kiddo?” Billy leaned as far back as he could, given that he was tethered to the table and to his own ankle chain. Somehow, he managed to look relaxed and at peace. “I raised you to think of yourself; first, last, and always. So you gotta want something from me.”

“I do.”

“Spit it out.”

“I…” Was this the right thing to do? He’d managed to build up a rapport of sorts with Billy over the past few minutes. As soon as he asked for help in catching the Impressionist…wouldn’t Billy realize he’d been had? Wouldn’t he—enraged—lunge for Jazz across the table, imaginary fence be damned?

Well, maybe. And in that case, Jazz would see his father beaten to within an inch of his life. So it was really a win-win scenario.

“I need your help. To find someone.”

“Really?” Billy actually seemed interested. “Who?”

“This might sound a little strange. So hear me out, okay? I’m sort of…I’m sort of trying to find a serial killer.”

Jazz had expected either a burst of laughter or a snarl of rage. He got neither. Billy’s grin just widened. “You don’t say.”

“Do you watch the news in here at all? Do you know about the Impressionist?”

“The Impressionist.” Billy said the name slowly, drawing it out to infinite syllables. “Can’t say as I do.”

“He’s copying your first kills. Right down to the drain cleaner. Right down to the initials of the victims.”

Jazz watched his father carefully for his reaction, but Billy’s face remained placidly—sociopathically—still.

Billy nodded slowly. “Why are you looking for this gentleman?”

To save my soul. If I have one in the first place.
“Honestly? I’m helping the cops.”

Now
would come the rage.

“Interesting,” Billy mused. “Very interesting.”

“That’s all you have to say? I’m trying to help the cops catch someone like you and you think it’s
interesting
?”

“Nah. That part’s boring. Totally natural for you to be checkin’ out the other side of the equation. Perfect sense. Hell, I spent three weeks at the police academy when I was a little older than you, Jasper. I get it.”

“Oh?” Jazz forced himself to show nothing but casual, impassive interest, while inside he fumed. Billy had been researching the cops, trying to learn their secrets. Jazz was doing something else entirely—trying to figure out how a killer’s mind worked. Trying to figure out if it was the same as his own.

“What’s interesting is that you ain’t tellin’ me the whole truth. You ain’t doin’ this to help the cops. You don’t give a damn about them. You’re doing this for
you
. To figure yourself out. To see what makes you tick.”

“No.”

“More important, Jasper, you’re doing this because you
have to
. Dog gotta hunt, son. You go find yourself a three-legged bird dog and then take it out hunting and you watch it fall over trying to point out the bird. It’ll happen every time, damn sure. You’re a hunter, born and bred. You got the scent. You want your prey, boy. You want to go prospecting. You need it.”

“No.”

Billy said, “It waits inside you. It lurks, you see? It waits and it pads around like a big cat, and when you least expect it, it comes up behind you. So don’t kid yourself. It’s there all along. It’s there. It’s just waiting, is all.”

“I’m not a killer.”

“Sure you are. You just ain’t killed no one yet.”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

“Heh. I should send you on your way empty-handed. No one held
my
hand and taught me how to play. No, sir. But I know how kids are today. Gotta have their parents doing everything for them. Helicopter parents, right?” He chuckled. “Read about that in
Newsweek
, same issue with my picture in it. So, yeah, I’ll help you, Jasper. But you’re going to help me, too.”

Jazz felt despair wash over him. A sociopath never gives anything away for free, and Jazz couldn’t unleash Billy Dent on the world.

“Forget it,” Jazz said, the bitter tang of regret gathering in his mouth with each syllable. “I won’t help you get out of here. I’m not doing that.”

“Who said I wanted you to?” Billy looked mortified by the very thought of it. “I told you, Jasper—I’m a king in here. Why would a king forsake his throne and his subjects? I ain’t going anywhere. Well”—he paused, considering—“except probably in a body bag, but that’s a ways off, I think.”

“Then what do you want? I’m not smuggling stuff in here for you—”

“Don’t want you to.”

“Then what?” Jazz threw up his hands in frustration. “What
do
you want?”

And Billy told him.

Jazz told his father as much about the Impressionist as he could, leaving out no details. He watched Billy carefully, wary of his reaction. Billy might be flattered that someone had decided to “honor” him in this fashion, or he might be enraged that another killer dared to walk in his footsteps. It could go either way.

But Billy gave no indication of how the information impacted him. He simply leaned back as far as the manacles would allow and closed his eyes, a slight, almost beatific smile on his lips, a smile that did not waver a micron as Jazz recounted the events of the last week.

When he finished, Billy took in a deep breath and exhaled through flaring nostrils, his eyes still closed. “Well, now,” he said quietly, “this is sure an interestin’ dilemma. And an interestin’ gentleman, that’s for sure.” His eyes popped open and he yawned, as though he’d just had a relaxing, refreshing nap. “Not sure what I can do for you, though.”

“You know. You have admirers out there.” He thought of the
FREE BILLY DENT!
conspiracy theorists outside Wammaket’s walls. “Sociopath groupies. Junkies for this stuff. I know. Women want to marry you. There’s websites dedicated to you. People write you fan mail.”

“That they do,” Billy agreed. “I don’t read most of it. It’s all the same junk: ‘Billy, I pray to you every night to give me the strength to do what you done.’ ‘Mr. Dent, my blood is your blood.’ ‘Oh, Billy, you’re the only real man on the planet.’ Hell, I know that. Don’t need letters to tell me. Some of them, they say they want to be like me. They say they want to learn from me. Be my protégé. You know what? I don’t need a protégé. Already got one. You.”

 Jazz ignored that last bit. “He’s obviously an admirer of yours. If I could look at the letters…”

“Got rid of ’em. Like I said—I don’t care.”

Jazz seethed, but he forced himself to remain calm. “Maybe you remember one in particular—”

“Guarantee you he ain’t been in touch with me.” Billy stroked his jaw with
FEAR
. “He’s thinkin’ he’s his own man. He’s doin’ a whatchacallit—a theme and variation. Like jazz musicians, playin’ the same melody but makin’ it their own tune.”

“Like rappers, sampling old rock songs?”

Billy snorted. “Whatever it takes for you to understand. Sure, like them hip-hop idiots. And he’s doin’ a fine job. No one’s got away from him. Not easy, you know. Most of those jackasses—guys like Gacy and Bundy and even that peckerhead Dahmer—most of ’em, at some point they let someone go. Either on purpose or by accident, someone gets away, and that’s when the downfall starts. Not me, though.” His eyes glittered, the coldest sapphires in the world. “Not me. Never let a one of ’em get away. Never screwed up.”

“Like this guy,” Jazz said, dragging the conversation back to the topic at hand.

“Well, he’s just starting out. Any fool can kill—what?—five people and get away with it. If he’s still out there batting a thousand after twenty or thirty, then come talk to me. I’ll be appropriately impressed. Bake him a cake or something.” Billy lit up. “There’s your answer, Jasper. You don’t gotta catch this guy. Just wait. He’ll trip on his own feet at some point, and then you got him.”

“That’s hardly an acceptable solution,” Jazz said calmly.

Billy shrugged. “Why not? Five dead, fifteen dead, fifty dead…Everyone dies. That’s a fact. The timing of it is just a detail.”

“I don’t want any more people to die.”

“Really?” Billy leaned in close, almost touching the invisible fence again. “Really, Jasper? ’Cause let me tell you something. I think you don’t really care about these people. And you know how I know that?”

“Tell me,” Jazz said tonelessly. But inside, his heart pounded at the idea of being psychoanalyzed by the man who knew him best.

“Because these people, these…these
mythical
people ‘out there’ somewhere, the ones he ain’t killed yet…You don’t know them, Jasper. They ain’t nothing to you. So why should you care if he kills them? Right now, someone’s dyin’.” Billy thumped the table lightly with his fist, the
LOVE
moving down, then up. “And now.”
Thump
went
LOVE
again. “And now.”
Thump.
“Some beggar in India, some Mexican on the border, some girl in New York City thinkin’ she’s gonna be a model but just got turned out to whoring instead. All of them dyin’ now”—
thump
—“and now”—
thump
—“and now”—
thump
—“and now”—
thump
—“and what do you care? What do I care?”

“Just because they’re abstract doesn’t mean they don’t matter,” Jazz said, forcing his voice not to quake or tremble or otherwise betray emotion. Because Billy was right. To a degree. People died all the time. He didn’t know them or even know about them. So did they matter?

People matter. People are real.

“You don’t care about savin’ his prospects. You care about yourself. About makin’ sure no one thinks you were involved. About provin’ you can be a regular citizen like all the others. That’s what you care about, Jasper.”

It was the truth—not a truth he wanted or needed to hear, but a truth nonetheless. But maybe it wasn’t the whole truth. Maybe there was more to the truth than Billy’s cynicism.

“My motives don’t matter,” he told Billy. “You agreed to help. Are you gonna help or not?”

Billy clucked his tongue. “So impatient. I ain’t seen my boy in years. Can you blame me for dragging things out a little?” He flashed a full-on angelic grin, like a child caught swiping a cookie.

Jazz would have none of it. He stared at his father.

“Oh, all right,” Billy said, slumping in his chair. “You ain’t no fun. Look, you got to learn how to think like this guy. Shouldn’t be hard for you, Jasper. He’s thinking like me, and you’re part of me. He’s an Impressionist. Don’t you know anything about Impressionism?”

Jazz shook his head.

“What
are
they teaching you in school these days?” Billy said in his best parody of a concerned parent. Jazz had the feeling that Billy would—if he could—kill every last teacher in Lobo’s Nod just to make his point. “Impressionism ain’t about what
is
. It’s about the overall
impression
of things, see? It’s about the effect of something on the eye, not the exact details. You follow?”

“I guess.”

“Now this last, poor victim, this poor Heller woman…” Billy did a passable job of sounding mournful about her passing. “She wasn’t exactly a maid, but she was close enough, see? That’s what mattered to him.”

“He also killed her too soon. You had a delay between your fourth and fifth.”

“So? Go to a museum sometime, son, and look at a Monet. Get real close, as close as they’ll let you, and then you tell me what day it was when good ol’ Claude painted one brushstroke as opposed to another. Timing don’t matter. Not to this guy. He cares about the overall effect.”

That made sense. But it didn’t resolve the essential problem.

“How does that help us figure out who his next victim is?”

Billy sighed and looked skyward, as if asking the Good Lord why he had to do all the work himself. “Look at ways he can twist the details, son, but still keep the overall effect. Like your teacher—she wasn’t
exactly
an actress, but close enough. Same thing here: He’s not going after some blond piece of tail in an office building. He’s looking for the secretary of the Rotary Club, or the gal who makes coffee at the PTA meetings.”

“But—”

“But nothing!” Billy said, showing some heat for the first time. “This guy’s being
accurate
, Jasper. Not
precise
. He bumped off some two-bit coffee-and-hash slinger from the local grease pit. My girl, she was a waitress at a fancy bistro right near the beach. Lot of tourist trade. Made more in tips in one night than this guy’s girl made in a week.” Billy spoke possessively, as if he owned his prospects. In a way, maybe he did. His contempt for the Impressionist was suddenly all too obvious. “I killed Vanessa Dawes. Beautiful Vanessa.” He sighed and leaned back, his expression that of a man remembering a gourmet meal. “She was an actress. Just starting out, sure, but she’d been on TV, and she had promise. This guy, who’d he kill? Your drama teacher? Your
drama teacher
? And that’s supposed to be the same thing? Are you kidding me?”

Excitement and anger both coursed through Jazz at the same time, and he struggled not to let either one show. This was it—what he’d been looking for. He should have seen it all along: The Impressionist was sticking to the spirit of Billy’s crimes, changing the letter to suit his own needs. Each victim was so close to Billy’s that Jazz hadn’t seen the differences. How had he missed that?

“Find the victim and we find him,” Jazz said.

“Maybe. But you also have to figure out how to identify this guy. He’s a part of our little hometown, sonny boy.” Billy grinned. “He’s gettin’ his breakfast at the Coff-E-Shop and probably checkin’ books outta the library. He feels comfortable in Lobo’s Nod. Killin’ so many there…Yeah, he feels comfortable there.”

A thought buzzed along the back of Jazz’s mind. “You think he’s a native? Someone from town who knew you, maybe? Or from nearby?”

Billy shrugged again. “Don’t really matter. What matters is, he fits in. Doesn’t stand out. That’s our biggest and best skill, Jasper. People think it’s knowing how to cut up a body or seducing a pretty little thing into your car. Nah. That’s bull. That’s stuff you can learn on the Internet. Our real skill is
blending in
. That’s what we’re good at.” He flashed a grin. “They never see us comin’, son, ’cause we look just like they do. We look human.”

Jazz’s mind was spinning. This was it—the key to catching the Impressionist.

He had to tell G. William right away. He stood up. “Are we done already?” Billy asked, hurt. “I ain’t had time to ask you about your Little League games and your soccer practice.”

Jazz looked down at his father’s hands.
LOVE
.
FEAR
.

“I have to go.” With great difficulty, he said, “Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.” He called to the CO at the door.

“Don’t forget our agreement, Jasper,” his father said as the COs came in. “Don’t you dare forget.”

“I won’t,” Jazz promised. As he made for the door, the COs unshackled Billy from the table and hoisted him to his feet by his elbows.

“Jasper.”

Jazz was out the door, but he turned to look back at his father—manacled, surrounded by trained, armed men. And still utterly in charge.

“Yeah?”

“The way you came in here…Wearing your armor, the coldest, baddest son of a bitch on the planet. The way you agreed with me about things. Slinging that line of bull-puckey about the kid gloves and all that. You were manipulating me. And did a damn fine job of it, too.”

The words and the sincerity behind them slid down Jazz’s spine like an icicle threading his vertebrae. “I’m not you.”

“You’re better,” Billy said.

“I’m not evil.” Saying that to anyone else, under any other circumstances, would have felt hyperbolic. Here and now and to Billy, it felt like not enough.

Billy’s lips curled in a smirk. “Want to know the difference between good and evil, Jasper?” Without waiting for an answer, Billy raised his right hand—
LOVE
—and snapped his fingers.

“That’s it, kid. That’s the difference. You won’t even know you’ve crossed the line until it’s way back in your rearview mirror.”

“That’s enough, Billy,” one of the COs growled, and they dragged him through the other door. If Jazz expected his father to shout out one last parting shot, he was disappointed: Billy Dent vanished—silent but for the rattle and clank of his chains—into the depths of Wammaket State Penitentiary.

Deputy Hanson said nothing the whole way home, once again letting his lead foot and the siren do all the speaking for him. The constant wail and blare sledgehammered their way into Jazz’s skull and bred a nice little headache there. He tried to ignore it, focusing instead on making himself heard over the shriek as he talked to G. William on Howie’s phone.

“…and he thinks she won’t be what we think of as a traditional secretary,” he went on, “maybe not even in a position that goes by the title of secretary, but something that could be
construed
as, you know, secretarial.”

G. William’s relief was palpable, even over the phone. “You just gave us a whole hell of a lot more work,” he told Jazz, “but it’s the kind of work I can get behind.”

He shut his eyes and tried to exorcise the ghost of Billy’s presence, but the rhythm of the siren somehow merged with Billy’s voice and kept howling at him over and over:

I think you don’t really care about these people.

You won’t even know you’ve crossed the line until it’s way back in your rearview mirror.

I don’t need a protégé. Already got one.

Sure you are. You just ain’t killed no one yet.

Jazz swallowed hard. Maybe that meant he hadn’t killed his own mother.

Or maybe Billy was just playing with him. He remembered what he’d told Connie:
You show any weakness to a serial killer and they live inside you after that.