Dead Last (17 page)

A few of the drinkers inched closer to the bus driver.

“He reads the death notices in the paper, the ones that broad writes, and they tell him who to whack next. Fucker called the
Herald,
said the lady was the oracle of death, he was just following her commands.”

“Oracle of death?” one of the cops said. “Aw, shit, here we go.”

A couple of guys playing pool wanted the Marlins game back on.

“Somebody’s ripping off a goddamn TV show,” the bartender said. “Nottoli, that moron from sanitation, he’s in here watching it every Thursday night. Same storyline, guy in a catsuit killing people, leaving obituaries behind. Stupid-ass show.”

“You got a phone?” Thorn asked the bartender.

The guy pulled a handset from his back pocket and gave it to Thorn.

“Waterway Lodge, you know the number?”

“Fuck no, what am I, four-one-one?”

“Try the bulletin board,” the bus driver said, and went back to the TV where the anchors were taking turns titillating each other with this horrifying turn of events.

The news ghouls hadn’t yet assigned the murderer a nickname, but that was coming. At that moment there was probably a conference room full of brainy folks running through the possibilities.

Among the hundreds of business cards tacked to the bulletin board, Thorn finally found one for the inn. He punched in the number, got the leering desk clerk, and asked for Ms. Hilton’s room.

Buddha picked up on the first ring.

“Turn on your TV. The eleven o’clock news.”

“What is it?”

“Turn it on.”

“There’s no TV in my quaint and charming room. What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure. A news crew was at April’s house, interviewing her. The reporter said her obituaries were inspiring a killer.”

“She spilled it,” Buddha said. “She promised not to, but she spilled it.”

“I don’t think so. She looked blindsided. Sounds like the killer called the paper, and I bet that phone call she got at Poblanos was her boss calling her afterward.”

“He called the paper?”

“Sounds that way. They know he wears a black suit. He claims he’s killed four already and he’s just getting started.”

“Where are you?”

“That bar we passed on the river. Four blocks east.”

“I’ll get dressed and come over.”

“Why?”

“So we can watch TV, talk it through.”

Thorn watched the two anchors, finished with the boogey man story, yukking it up with the weather guy.

“There’s nothing we can do tonight.”

She was silent for a moment.

“Thorn?”

“Yeah.”

“We set him off.”

“What?”

“This isn’t a coincidence. A few hours after we come to town and start asking questions, the guy pops up, changes the rules.”

Thorn was silent for a moment, running it through.

He said, “You didn’t mention the Zentai suit to Frank, or April, or anybody else.”

“Just you.”

“Which means nobody we talked to could’ve leaked that. Had to be the killer. The guy tells them he wears a black suit. Why’s he do that?”

“He’s feeling it.”

“Feeling what?”

“Invincible.”

The Marlins game was back on. They were down by five runs in the eighth. Losing in front of a couple of dozen fans in a luxurious new stadium.

“Okay, what does it mean, we show up, sniff around, a few hours later the guy breaks radio silence? What’s the thought process?”

“I’m not a profiler, Thorn. I’m a small-town sheriff.”

“Bullshit. You’re more than that, Buddha. A lot more than that.”

She was silent for several moments. A woman unfamiliar with praise.

“You still there?”

“The guy outs himself,” she said. “To me that says he’s ready for the limelight. But he wants it on his own terms. A control freak. Wants to manage the message.”

“I’m coming back,” he said. “Keep your door locked.”

“Don’t get all spooky, Thorn.”

“If this character wants to manage the message, then you and me, we’re a problem. We’re wild cards. He knows about us. We lit his fuse. Keep your door locked. I’ll be there in five.”

*   *   *

You are carrying an aluminum baseball bat down a Miami street in the dark. Your body is out of body. You are walking on the street and you are floating above all this. It is eerie and wonderful and scary as shit.

You never liked aluminum bats. They’re lighter, yes, move quicker through the air. But you dislike the noise they make when they smack a baseball, that hollow
boink.
They sound like something you’d hear inside a factory, rivets pounded into steel, some assembly line noise.

The old ones, the wood ones, impacting the leather ball, there was a satisfying thump, two real objects made from living things, clashing against each other. The sturdy wood crushing the hard leather sphere. Sending it flying.

Like you are flying now. Taking this risk. Thrust into action.

But it’s okay. You’re ready for a change. It’s time. The killings were starting to feel ordinary. This is different, a wild, dangerous swing into the uncharted. You have no blueprint. You’ve not planned this step by step like the others, but thrown it together. It is the last-minuteness of it that thrills you. The spontaneity. Riffing, riding the wave of the hurtling moment. Going someplace, you don’t know where. Feeling your way, relying on instinct.

You knew this day was coming. It was time for this phase. So it’s okay. Today is as good as any day. Today, you have decided, is perfect.

You are holding the bat in one hand beside your leg, concealing it as you walk. You are a shadow in your black suit, in the suit that merges with the shadows. You feel tremors in your gut, stronger than any you felt before.

You see the inn where they are staying. Their red car parked outside a separate bungalow that stands beneath a giant oak. No streetlights here. Only dim lights from across the river, the freighters and the warehouses on the other bank. The tremor in your gut is taking root. You are bathed in sweat, the suit clinging to you, growing heavy.

You have been thinking of this moment for years. Planning it without ever picturing the specific way it would unfold, but priming yourself, waiting for the catalyst. Wondering if you would have the courage, the moral strength. And now you know. You are more than anyone imagines, more than you yourself thought possible.

At the bungalow there are two doors side by side. You are not sure which is hers, which is his. You stand a few feet away in a pool of darkness and choose the left. First one, then the other, that’s all the plan you have.

Before you move, you listen for voices or the sound of footsteps, but there is only the incessant rumble of traffic on the adjacent streets and a radio blasting reggae on one of the freighters. The rank scent of the river in the air.

You step forward and the shudder is still with you. You wonder if it’s possible to sustain this mad exhilaration, to nurture it, to endlessly ride this wave of dark rapture as if you have leapt from a cliff edge and will fall and fall but never reach the earth.

You knock on the left door. Five hard raps. Then five more.

“Thorn?” A woman’s voice.

You do not speak. There are no peepholes in the doors. You stand out of view of the single window.

“Thorn, is that you?”

The door opens a few inches and her face appears in the crack.

Her face is covered with black lettering. Weird woman. No security chain. She squints at you in your black suit and tries to shut the door.

But you’re quicker. You ram the tip of the aluminum bat through the opening and it thuds into flesh. Her face or throat.

You pry the door open, thump her in the chest, and then hit her flush in the face. She falls backward into the room, nose pouring blood, and you are inside.

You shut the door.

She backs away. She’s wearing a robe that falls open. Naked beneath. A shapely woman, heavy breasts. While she’s reeling, you rip her bathrobe off, pull it free of her arms. Now she’s fully exposed, perfectly vulnerable.

She shoots a look toward her suitcase on a stand and you follow her glance and see the butt of her service revolver peeking out. You step between her and the luggage. She has no escape. You are bigger, stronger, armed with your primitive instrument.

“Who are you?” she says.

The two of you are doing a subtle dance. A step to the right, a half step left. She counters you, mirroring your moves as if she’s your partner, your other half.

“You don’t know me,” you say.

You speak without thinking. A violation of your rules. Engaging with them. You’ve never done it before. But then this is the start of a new direction. Crossing a great divide, the beginning of the next act when new laws apply.

“I do know you,” she says.

“No, you don’t. No one does.”

“You can stop doing this. It’s not too late. You can stop.”

You slash the bat at her, but she skips away.

You don’t like being lectured to by this woman. It makes you feel childish, as though she’s torn your suit away, left you as naked as she is.

You feint in and she tries a martial arts kick.

But the bat is already in motion and it cracks against her shin.

She buckles, stumbles backward, moans. She throws punches at the air. She’s a trained fighter, but her training is futile against your blitz. You swing the bat, wade into a flurry of grunts and shrieks, push ahead with chopping blows and more chopping blows. Driving her backward, and backward again.

Your bat pings against bone and pings again. It’s a disgusting noise. You wish you’d found a wooden bat. But no, there simply wasn’t time to shop around.

THIRTEEN

THORN STARTED OFF AT A
lope, trying to stay calm, telling himself this wasn’t super-serious, just worrisome, somewhat alarming. But after trotting along the riverfront for a block, a tingle swept along his shoulders, a creepy sense of foreboding that someone was following him, a black presence, the boogeyman.

Too much beer, too little sleep.

He looked over his shoulder, saw nothing. But he kicked it up a notch, running now, stretching it out. Not a full sprint, but close. The tingle turned into chills as he pictured Buddha alone in that isolated building, apart from the inn, set a long block away from a nearby apartment complex. Not that anybody would come to her aid if she called out. Not that the cops were cruising that bleak quadrant of town. Center of the city, but as devoid of human presence as the middle of the Mojave.

Streetlights too dim. Shadows everywhere.

He rounded a corner and saw someone on the sidewalk coming toward him. All black, head to toe. Jesus, right there in the open, right there in front of him like an everyday thing.

Thorn got his legs driving, going to tackle the guy, lower his shoulder, level the asshole. Twenty yards, ten, the guy in black halted, seeing Thorn flying at him, stopped and waited like he wasn’t all that worried, like maybe this happened all the time, forced him to draw his gun and bring down some charging beast on the city street. Thorn hadn’t considered the guy being armed, but kept coming anyway, closing fast.

Fucker set his feet, turned sideways like a marksman at the range, raising both hands. Then Thorn was there, ten feet off, and saw the guy’s face. A black man, African American, in dark trousers and a brown T-shirt. His fists up in a fighting stance.

Thorn swerved at the last second, the guy taking a swing, but missing.

“Sorry,” Thorn gasped at him. “Sorry.”

And got back up to speed, a full-out sprint, seeing the bungalow, the red car out front, the lights on in Buddha’s side, door shut.

Everything appeared normal, but his gut wasn’t buying it. He covered the last twenty yards in a flat-out dash.

Breathing fast, not quite gasping but close. He halted at the oak tree.

Light-headed, out of fucking shape, hands on his knees, bent over. He didn’t want Buddha to see him like this, didn’t want to rattle her with his own paranoia. He took a few seconds to get his breath then walked to the door and knocked.

No response.

He waited, knocked again, spoke her name. Said it a little louder. His chest was still thumping. Breath heaving too loud to hear clearly.

He tried the knob and it turned, and he knew that was wrong. Way wrong. With the door still shut, he crouched and set his shoulder against the wood midway for maximum leverage, and rammed forward, ducking as he came into the room, set to roll across the hardwood floor, to dodge a bullet or a fist, but there was nothing.

The room was empty.

Her small suitcase was on the folding stand. The lid open, everything packed neatly, clothes in folded squares, a plastic bag full of her toiletries. Her phone on the made bed, her electronic tablet lined up beside it. Her black ballistic nylon holster was wedged into a corner of the bag. The butt of the pistol visible. Otherwise the room was exactly as it had been when she’d first walked in and done a tour and pronounced herself pleased. A woman on the road for the first time in her life, staying in a room she considered swanky.

The bathroom door was shut and a slit of light showed at the bottom. He thought he heard water running but wasn’t sure. Still breathing too hard to be certain.

She was drawing a bath, or brushing her teeth.

“Buddha?”

When she didn’t answer, he stepped closer to the door, suppressing his breath, listening. It was water, then the water shut off.

“Your door was open. Buddha, it’s me.”

No answer. Something wrong.

He noted the hinges. The door opened outward, into the room.

He tried to flex his puffy right hand. He couldn’t trust it to turn the knob and yank open the door. Which meant he’d have to stand to the left against the wall and backhand it with his working hand. Awkward as hell.

He called her name again and stepped closer. On the bed her cell phone began to play a tune. Paul McCartney on the piano, McCartney singing, “Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better.”