What Doesn’t Kill Her (10 page)

The Internet made it easy to learn all kinds of things about people who had gained any amount of celebrity, and Basil Havoc—a frequent subject on gymnastics blogs and in articles posted from sports magazines—certainly qualified. Apparently Havoc was a stern taskmaster with a temper, which made him a good candidate for violent behavior. Which helped make him a good suspect.

Havoc’s Escalade veered right onto the ramp for Royalton Road, a change from pattern, and the same exit Mark had taken the night before, when he stopped by the Sully home in Strongsville. A spike of excitement accompanied the young detective up the ramp.

On Royalton, Havoc soon turned left onto Howe Road, just past the Samurai Sushi Steakhouse. Mark hung back, breathing hard. No cars between them now—Havoc seemed to be mimicking Mark’s route from last night.

Would he turn right onto Cypress Avenue, the block where the Sully home sat, now silent and vacant?

They skirted the east boundary of the SouthPark Mall, crossing Polo Club Drive. Havoc continued south—if the man stopped at the Sully home, would that constitute probable cause? How Mark would love to have an excuse to haul this creep in. They passed Pomeroy Boulevard on the west, then Tracy Lane on the east, the Escalade obeying the speed limit, Mark doing his best to hang back and not be spotted. They passed Shurmer Road on the west and, despite the row of houses on the east side of Howe Road, Mark could hear the faint echo of traffic back on I-71.

The Escalade continued south, passing Canterbury Drive.
Just two blocks to go
—Mark was practically holding his breath now, wondering if (
almost praying that
) Havoc would make the turn.

Glendale Avenue streaked by and—as they passed the houses, most with their lights on, families enjoying an evening together (
something the Sullys would never do again
)—Mark’s excitement was replaced by a cold, anger-tinged resolve.

When Havoc’s turn signal came on, Mark felt almost that he had willed it, that he now controlled the Escalade, that he was making it go to the house where that family had been so savagely murdered.…

As they eased west on Cypress Avenue, Mark closed the gap some. Would Havoc stop, or slow, or even just look over at the Sully house as they passed? In the darkness, it was impossible to tell the latter.

Then at the corner, Havoc turned left onto Park Lane Drive, heading south.
Was Havoc just screwing with him?
Had the gymnastics coach made him somehow? He wasn’t driving a department car, and his tailing technique had been by-the-book—how could the g.d. guy have gotten onto him?

Havoc turned right onto Drake Road, going west again. No way Havoc could know he was a cop! Much less realize that Mark had been investigating him.

Another left, and they were heading south again, this time on Pearl Road, Havoc leading, just under the speed limit—
where the heck they were going?
They passed through the major intersection with Boston Road.

Flummoxed, Mark was not exactly riding Havoc’s tail, but with limited traffic—they’d been the only two cars on Cypress Avenue—the guy surely would make him soon, if he hadn’t already. Mark could always pull off onto one of the side streets, which led to nothing more than a forest of cul-de-sacs.…

But if Havoc stayed on Pearl, as far south as Center Road, in Brunswick, Mark could simply peel off, get back on the interstate, and head home. No harm, no foul.

At the inappropriately named Beverly Hills Drive, Havoc turned east, then again, into the parking lot of a strip mall. Mark followed. He’d come this far.

The single-story mall had five outlets, one out of business, three closed for the night, with Apollonia’s Italian Restaurant, at the far end, blinking its red
OPEN
sign.

Havoc parked.

So did Mark, half a dozen spaces over—when Havoc went inside, Mark would just pull out. His excitement, his anger, had fizzled into frustration and embarrassment. Still, a part of him wanted to just march over to Havoc’s car and confront the creep.

Then, watching the Escalade out his open window, he realized that just the opposite was happening—Havoc had climbed out of his Escalade and was
approaching Mark’s Equinox with that easy gait of a jungle beast. My lord, the man moved quickly! And with seemingly no effort.

Mark scrambled for something to say as Havoc came up to the driver’s side door. The man had a mop of dark hair and a Tom Selleck mustache, his well-developed musculature obvious beneath a dark polo emblazoned with the name of his business. His face was wide and flat with a small, flattened nose. Dark cold eyes peered out from beneath heavy eyebrows. Displeasure radiated off of him, as he leaned down like an angry carhop.

“You following me for a reason?” Havoc asked, his middle-European accent less than pronounced but more than apparent.

“Sorry, I thought you were somebody else,” Mark managed with a nervous laugh. “Friend of mine.” Lamely, he held up his cell phone. “I tried to call but when he didn’t answer, I assumed it was ’cause he was driving.”

Havoc let out a long breath and his displeasure seemed to go with it. “Your buddy has an Escalade, huh? Seems like everybody does these days.”

“Or an Equinox,” Mark said, with a strained smile.

Nodding at the detective’s blue vehicle, Havoc grinned. “Yeah, I see these everywhere.”

Was he playing with Mark?

As the two men exchanged shrugs and pleasant expressions, Mark wondered: was this the beast that killed Jordan Rivera’s family? The Elkinses? The Sullys? A knot in Mark’s gut tightened itself.

“I was starting to think my buddy was leading me on a wild goose chase,” Mark said, thinking about the Sully home. “Ya don’t mind my saying, kind of a roundabout route to get here.”

The big man nodded, the breeze ruffling his dead-looking hair. “Brunswick exit might be easier, but with all that damn construction on the interstate? Makes it one lane most of the way. I hate getting stuck in traffic. And there’s always traffic.”

I-71 did have its share of construction and frequent traffic jams. “I don’t know if I was ever on Cypress Avenue before,” Mark said with a grin.

“It’s a quiet part of town.”

Was this guy messing with him?

Jerking a thumb toward the restaurant, Havoc asked, “You know Apollonia’s?”

Mark shook his head.

“It’s damn good,” Havoc said. “You should try it. Osso buco to die for.”

He gave Mark a little wave and nod, then turned and headed to the restaurant.

Was he letting a killer walk away?

Yet what else could he do? Mark had no evidence to speak of, and he had just come close to giving himself away. If Kelley knew about this botched-up episode, all the ground Mark had gained with the captain would be lost.

He thought about going in that restaurant and ordering a meal, and sitting where Havoc could see him, and maybe getting under the skin of this monster. Give the guy something to think about, something to worry about.

Then he drove home.

My love for Italian food is, I’m afraid, one vice I just can’t resist. I’m afraid I tend to lose control, eating too much and too quickly, and while gluttony is, perhaps, a minor sin, it is
still
a sin.

So this evening, this very special evening, I force myself to eat slowly, to savor every bite of a single delectable portion. I will savor tonight’s task, as well. After a satisfying repast, there is nothing quite like doing God’s work to boost the metabolism. My deed for tonight is doubly delicious. Not only will I be doing His work, passing His judgment down on another unrepentant sinner, but I will be sending (rather graciously, if it’s not ungracious of me to say so) a gift to my reward, my prize, my Jordan.

Now that she’s back in the world,
my
world, it’s time I reintroduced myself to her, to let her know that I’ve been waiting for her, for such a very long and lonely time.

I have just the thing to welcome her back. I’ve been keeping track of a sinner who has an apartment at Archwood and 32nd Place. I could have dealt with her at any time, but there are too many sinners for me to address each and every one—I am but one simple man, after all. Once I started studying her, however, He showed me The Way. First, she bears a striking resemblance to my Jordan—the same long, black hair, same facial structure, same body type. One who didn’t know better might suspect them of being sisters.

This sinner is a fornicator. Fornication has its place, in the repopulation of God’s green earth. But this fornicator seeks only pleasure and self-gratification and, most of all, is an unrepentant, even
casual
killer. Do I exaggerate? She killed her own
child
by having it aborted. It is hard to imagine such brutality.

Or such shameless sinning. Mere weeks after committing the abomination of killing one of God’s children, she has lain with men who are not her husband. This woman (her name is Clare Deems) I have come to think of as the anti-Jordan. Please understand that any resemblance between this sinner and God’s Reward to Me Whose Name is Jordan is physical only. Clare is harlot-like whereas Jordan is pure, filth where Jordan is purity. Still, in a symbolic sense, Clare might be seen to represent the old Jordan. The Jordan before I came into her life to rescue her from a sinning world. (In Jordan’s defense, this was the world she was born into, and she did her best navigating it, and let us not forget she delivered herself to me as a virgin.) So Clare represents the past, and must be eliminated so that the new, the purified Jordan can take her rightful place.

At my side.

I’ve been watching this sinner for a while now. She is one of many that I check on from time to time, knowing they won’t change their wicked ways, knowing that sooner or later I may be called upon to visit them as a manifestation of the metaphorical Grim Reaper, to mete out His will for them. I can’t be everywhere. I can’t do everything. I have a lot on my plate, especially now that Jordan is back in this sinful place. Suppose she were corrupted before we could come back together? But no, such thoughts must not deter me. Keeping her close is a priority, but not my only responsibility. I am still busy with God’s work. After all, who was it that said, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop”? It’s not in the Bible, although Matthew 12:43–45 comes rather close.

Tonight, I’m standing in the shadows at the north end of the half-block-long apartment building where Clare Deems lives. I am in a raincoat, though there is no sign of rain. An inveterate sinner, Clare must be commended for her work ethic and regularity of habit. When her shift ends at ten, she will pull into the parking lot before ten thirty. The restaurant where she works stops serving at nine and, even if she picks up one of the male customers for purposes of fornication, she will manage to get home by ten thirty. It’s actually very impressive, but a well-organized sinner is still a sinner.

I check the lighted time on my cell phone—ten twenty. Any minute now. I glance east, looking for headlights, but nothing yet.

He will provide. I have faith. I have stood here several nights and kept vigil for Clare and every night, without fail, she has arrived on time. Now, it’s just patience that is required of me. And it doesn’t take long before I am rewarded. The headlights of her Kia Soul appear in the drive and I watch as she swings through the lot to her usual parking place.

As soon as she puts the car in park, I’m moving fast, but not running. I’ve rehearsed this a hundred times in the theater of my mind. She will turn off the lights next. There, good girl. She’ll open the door and when she gets out, her back will be to me. It will be the only mistake she needs to make. The last she ever will make.…

She is as accommodating to me as she would be with any of her many lovers. She gets out of the car,
yes,
her back to me. She never hears me coming. From behind, lit only by the streetlight at the lot’s far end, she looks like Jordan. Though I know His will, I am tempted to do more. She reminds me so much of my prize, My Reward, that I feel myself having impure thoughts. Even as I do, my hand snakes out, wraps around her flat belly, and I pull her to me as my other hand covers her mouth with the cloth. I’ve soaked it in chloroform and it will render her unconscious quickly. In the meantime, she bucks and fights, rubbing against me, multiplying my impure thoughts, but she is no match for my strength much less my spiritual resilience. My face is buried in her neck and she smells good, but not like Jordan, who smelled so fresh and clean that sacred night. Clare’s scent is a combination of sweat, spilled beer, and some cheap perfume mixed with a sale brand shampoo. Earthly scents that one must admit have their carnal appeal.

Just as I wonder if I’m going to be exposed too long in this lot, she goes limp in my arms. Working quickly, I hit the unlock button on the key fob as I drag her around to the passenger side, tuck her in, as if she were slumbering or slumped drunkenly, and close the door. I walk back to the driver’s side, start the car, put on my seat belt, and pull away. Check my watch. Elapsed time, not even two minutes.

I could have dispatched her right there, but I have better plans. As we drive through the night, I glance over. She’s really not as pretty as Jordan—even with only the passing streetlights as illumination, that much is clear.

Twenty minutes in a car with an unconscious female might be dangerous, but she is important in my plan to remind Jordan of our time together.

When I get to the Ohio City Historic District, the neighborhood where I know Jordan now lives, I can’t resist driving by her apartment. I reduce speed as I pass her building, look up at the light barely visible through her closed venetian blinds. I smile as I suppress the urge to alert Jordan that I am so close.

But no. I am no hormone-rattled teenager, honking for his date to come join him. She and I will have a much more meaningful relationship than that, our bond already formed but soon to be forged into something eternal. And it will happen soon enough. Tonight, I have God’s work to do.