Be Afraid (2 page)

One nod and he would fire.

Instead of giving permission, Madness shifted attention to the woman. Pretty and slim enough, the woman, Diane Smith, until hours ago had been dressed well and had walked with confidence. She, no doubt, had caught the eye of many men. She liked rich, buttery chardonnays paired with a creamy Brie or goat cheese. She liked good conversation and old movies. Reason might have befriended her if not for Madness.

In this macabre scene, Madness, not Reason, was the ultimate authority. Madness chose the staging, the casting, and, of course, the final execution. Moments like this thrilled because it gave Madness the one thing he could never sustain: control.

“Can I do it now?” Jonas’s timid voice had a familiar, annoying ring.

“Savor the moment,” Madness rasped.

Jonas’s hunger was razor sharp and, of course, the woman’s senses had never been so acute. Being this close to death made everyone in the room feel alive.

Diane’s watery gaze was a mixture of terror and confusion.
How could this have happened to me? I’m careful. I play by the rules.

Madness saw the question flash. A soft chuckle rumbled. “But you didn’t play by all the rules, did you, Diane? In fact, you like to break them every so often. Not too much. But once in a while, you enjoy the walk on the wild side.”

Diane shook her head as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Gently, Madness approached the bed and sat. The mattress sagged. Diane’s black hair was plastered to her forehead by sweat. “Didn’t you ever hear that cocaine is a bad habit? If not for that little quirk in your personality, you’d have been fine.” Jonas had lured her out of her car with the promise of coke. “You’d be on the other side of that door right now sitting in your living room watching that cooking show you enjoy so much. But you couldn’t control it and now you must pay your toll.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head, a soft moaning rumbling in her throat.

“Maybe it’s not a crippling compulsion, but it’s there nonetheless.” Madness continued to stroke her hair, so soft and dark. “You’re no different from me. Once in a while, I get the cravings. I can ignore them for a time. But the more I deny them, the more they grow until one day I just must have one little bite.” A snap of even white teeth close to her ear made her flinch. “You’re my bite.”

She closed her eyes and wept.

Madness drew in a deep breath, and the scent of her fear smelled sweet. Deliciously intoxicating.

“Now?” Jonas asked.

The world and the people in it were in such a rush. “In a moment.”

“I can’t wait! Why do I have to wait?” He pressed the handle of the gun to his head as if trying to soothe the pounding behind his eyes.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The tantalizing promise of release was painful.

“Anticipation is the sweetest part of dessert.” Madness patted Diane on the arm, rose, and moved to the back corner of the room by the dresser.

Madness double-checked the camera’s angle and then hefted a red can of diesel fuel and jerked off the cap. A tip of the canister splashed the fuel on the gray carpet, over the blue bedspread and up sheer white curtains that blocked the light of the full moon.

Jonas shifted from foot to foot. “Haven’t you spread enough of that stuff?”

“Never can be too careful.” Diesel burned longer but didn’t have the initial combustive power of gasoline, which could spread too fast or burn out.

The woman twisted at her bindings. She rolled her head from side to side as if willing this nightmare to end.

They were all suffering with anticipation.

Backing up to the room’s threshold, Madness stood silent, savoring the scene one last time. Finally, Madness retrieved a box of matches from the deep pockets of a blue Windbreaker and dug out a single match and struck it. The flame danced and swayed as if begging to be sent out onstage.

Diane closed her eyes, as tears streamed down her cheek.

A breeze caught the flame and blew it out.

“What’re you waiting for?” Jonas asked.

One. Two. Three. Savor. Savor. Savor.

“Okay, Jonas.”

“I can shoot now?” Excitement and fear rumbled under the words.

“Yes.”

Diane’s eyes shot open and a muffled scream rumbled in her throat as Jonas raised the gun. She jerked at her bindings until her wrists bled.

Jonas pulled on the trigger and, as the gun fired, he closed his eyes on reflex. The bullet hit the woman directly between the eyes. Her body jerked as blood splattered and her eyes rolled back in her head. In one second she was gone, dead.

Jonas opened his eyes and looked at his gun in shock, as if the entire moment had been lived by another. He pressed the gun to his chest, cradling it close. “I killed her! I finally did it.”

Madness pocketed the camera. “Yes, you did. You did it just right.”

Jonas studied her. “She’s so still.”

“Yes.”

Seconds passed as Jonas stared at the carnage. Slowly the brightness in his gaze dimmed. The near-bursting bubble of anticipation had popped with one sharp prick of a bullet.

“You’re feeling let down,” Madness soothed.

Jonas looked at the gun and the woman. “How did you know?”

“Because I feel it too. All the planning, thinking, and dreaming. All gone in an instant.”

“Yes.”

“And just like that, it’s over.” The snap of two fingers echoed in the room.

Jonas flinched. “I thought it would last longer.”

“It never does. It’s always over in a blink.”

Jonas shook his head. “I thought there’d be more.”

“I told you, anticipation trumps the moment.” Breathe in. Breathe out. “That’s why I made us wait.”

“I can’t believe it’s over.”

A clap of hands made Jonas start and look up. “Time to go. Time to destroy the evidence.”

Jonas sat on the bed and took the woman’s cooling, still hand in his. “I won’t see her again.”

“No.”

“Can’t we just stay a little longer? I don’t want to leave her.”

Madness moved toward Jonas and gently pulled the gun from his hands. “We have to go. We need to destroy this evidence and leave.”

Tears welled in Jonas’s eyes. “I don’t want it to be over.”

“No one ever does.” Madness took Jonas by the hand, and with little effort guided him toward the door. One last glance back at the room, the strike of another match, a quick toss, and the room immediately was ablaze. Quickly, the flames generated white, then gray billowing smoke that thickened and blackened to a dense inky shade. Smoke and flame moved up the walls, over the ceiling and back down to the floor again in a deadly whirlpool.

If they stayed, they’d see the flames devour the floor, walls, ceiling and, of course, the woman. It all would be reduced to cinders in fifteen minutes. There’d be some forensic data to retrieve, but not much else. The body, perhaps, and the bullet. But not their DNA.

Out the front door, they moved into the darkness toward Jonas’s car, a station wagon. The actors always drove to the scene, never the master, in case a witness happened to look.

Jonas fired up the engine, revving the accelerator.

“Remember, drive slowly. We don’t want to be noticed.”

“Right.” Jonas gripped the wheel and drove.

The rearview mirror gave a perfect view of the flames consuming the house. In the distance, fire engines wailed. Someone had already called 9-1-1.

“Is that the cops?” Jonas asked.

“No. The fire department.” They rounded a corner and the fire faded from view.

In silence, they drove for several minutes before Jonas gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Can we do it again? I want to do it again!”

“Not right away. We have to wait.” Anticipation burned under the yoke of Reason’s screams to be freed.

But like Jonas, Madness didn’t want to wait. Madness had been starved for too long and would not allow Reason to dictate terms.

Lights from Broadway in Nashville’s music district flashed across Jonas’s face as they made their way toward an open bar. “I don’t want to wait.”

“Let’s get a drink.”

Jonas frowned.

“You’ve trusted me this far. Have I ever let you down?”

“No.”

“Then trust me.”

Monday, August 14, 8
A.M.

Detective Rick Morgan’s nickname was Boy Scout. He didn’t like the moniker, given to him by his partner Detective Jake Bishop, but in the four weeks they’d been partnered, it had stuck.

“Why?” he’d once asked Bishop.

The answer came with a shrug. “You couldn’t lie if you tried, you keep your hair buzzed, walk like you’ve a stick up your ass and, Christ, what’s with the Johnny Cash black suits?”

If Rick had cared, he’d have explained that a natural bluntness limited conversations to the facts; the haircut and suits were convenient, and, well, better a rigid gait than reveal the limp, a reminder of the two bullets that had sliced into his upper leg and spilled his blood on I-40.

Memories of lying on hard asphalt heated by the July sun as he bled out remained vivid. Broad daylight. Not a cloud in the sky. It had been a routine traffic stop. A blue Ford truck with a busted tail light. He’d flashed his lights. The truck had pulled to the side. No signs of trouble. Plates called in, he’d approached the car, careful to touch the back trunk and leave fingerprints, a precaution in case of trouble. Before he cleared the trunk, the gun muzzle flashed. He’d drawn his gun. Gunfire. Pain. His thumb had jammed against the release button on his vest, opening the back door of his vehicle to free his canine Tracker. The shepherd had leapt into action. Snarls and barking mingled with more gunfire. Tracker had gone down in a heap, the whimper of his pain echoing in Rick’s ears as he’d fired again and mortally wounded the shooter.

It had all gone down in less than thirty seconds. Thirty fucking seconds.

A horn honked.

Rick straightened and glanced up at the green light. He pushed the accelerator and drove the remaining blocks to the Nashville Police Department’s offices located on Union and Third Avenue North. He parked, shoved out a breath hoping it would take some of the tension with it. He’d been in the homicide department four weeks now and still hadn’t fallen in step with his new partner.

Out of the car, he was grateful the persistent throb in his hip was manageable today as he opened the back door. Tracker looked up at him and barked, his signal that he was ready to work.

Rick pulled a ramp from the floorboard and rested it against the seat and the ground, allowing Tracker an easy exit from the vehicle. Tracker had lost a good portion of his back right leg and, though he walked well enough, he was no longer certified for duty. The department had allowed Rick to adopt the dog as a personal pet.

But Tracker was no more built for the civilian life than Rick. During his medical leave, Rick had tried returning to school but found the day-to-day classes underwhelming. No buzz. No excitement. Just boring.

And so he’d put in his papers to be reinstated and, as luck would have it, he’d been tossed the new spot on the homicide team. Rick wasn’t foolish enough to believe he’d gotten the job strictly on merit. He was a good cop, maybe a great one, but it had been his father’s forty-plus years of service to the department, as well as his brother’s current spot on the homicide team, that had tipped the scales. Family connections had opened the door to this opportunity and he sure as hell wasn’t going to squander it.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, right, T?” He and Tracker made their way to the front doors.

The two, both stiff from the car ride, moved slowly to the elevators. So far, Rick and Tracker had held their own. Not setting it on fire but closed a few slam-dunk cases. He punched the second-floor button.

When the door opened, the hum of the fluorescent lights and chatter offered a half-hearted welcome. A few detectives glanced up in their direction. One or two tossed an appreciative glance toward Tracker, none toward Rick. No one had an issue with the dog.

Tracker settled on a thick army blanket next to a metal, five-drawer desk as Rick glanced at the stack of homicide files he’d been reviewing yesterday. A teen knifed behind Broadway in an alley. A floater in the Cumberland River. A hit-and-run near Fourth Street.

He shrugged off his coat and moved to the break room to pour a cup of coffee. He’d not slept well last night or any other night since the shooting. A year should have loosened the hold of that night but time apparently didn’t heal all wounds. Nightmares still jerked him out of sleep, leaving his heart pounding like a jackhammer and his body doused in sweat.

He eased into his chair and sipped coffee as he reached for a file.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Boy Scout.” The brusque request wrapped in a Boston accent came from his partner, Jake Bishop. In his late thirties, Bishop wore his jet-black hair slicked back and a dark beard trimmed close to his angled features. He favored dark shirts, ties that popped, and suits cut especially to his lean frame. He could have just been plucked out of South Boston if not for the polished black cowboy boots, his only concession to Middle Tennessee.

In the month they’d been partnered, Bishop had barely spoken to Rick, who by virtue of his birth had the inside track Bishop had worked a decade to reach.

Rick reached for his jacket and coffee and he and Tracker moved toward the elevators. Bishop punched the button and when the doors slid open the trio rode the elevator down. They generally used Rick’s car, a dark SUV, which was Bishop’s unvoiced concession to Tracker.

Bishop buckled his seat belt without comment and glanced toward the backseat at the alert dog. “Dog looks good. You’re moving kind of slow though, aren’t you, Boy Scout?” His tone was light, friendly almost. “Feeling okay?”

“Feel great.”

Rick could hear the wheels turning in his partner’s head. The transplant had worked hard to fit in, earned every bit of ground he’d made in homicide, and his reward had been a crippled legacy and his dog. Bishop had not said he was waiting for Rick, the favored son, to screw up, but that was exactly what he was doing.