Fire Point (10 page)

33

At five minutes past ten, while they were debating whether to go out or stay in, and Marcus was praying no one would mention the girl they hadn’t yet killed, Gretchen’s car pulled up outside. She walked straight in, without a word to anyone, and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. She popped the cap off and took a long sip. ‘Got your text. Figured I’d swing by. So, Devon’s back to being a little bitch, huh?’

Krank was sitting at the table, his iPad in hand, scrolling over a map of northern Malibu. From time to time he would swipe at the screen, cross-referencing the contours of the map with a database. He glanced up at Gretchen as she pushed herself onto the kitchen counter. ‘Lauren’s the problem. But don’t worry, I’ll deal with her.’

Gretchen tilted back the beer bottle and took a slug. She was short, barely five feet two inches, with spiky blonde hair, striking blue eyes and so many tattoos and piercings that even she had lost count. She was wearing pink Chuck Taylor high tops, skin-tight jeans, a crop top that showed off a muscular torso, and an over-sized black leather biker jacket. Apart from the air of menace that she carried with her, she could have stepped straight out of a Japanese anime cartoon.

‘You’ll deal with her?’ Gretchen said, her sharp chin jutting out as her head tilted back. ‘What you gonna do, Krank? Kill her?’

Loser pushed back his chair from the long wooden kitchen table, and stalked out. Gretchen smirked. ‘Pussy,’ she called after him. ‘You boys are all such pussies.’

‘I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,’ said Krank, swiping back to his map.

‘You just did, asshole,’ Gretchen shot back. ‘Hey, how are you, MG? Awfully quiet over there.’

Marcus shrugged. Even though he was much more confident with women than he had been before, Gretchen set him on edge. Not that he was the only one. She could unsettle most people if she set her mind to it.

No one knew for certain how Krank had hooked up with Gretchen. It was lost somewhere back in the mists of time. They had spun so many different versions of how they had come to be friends that neither Marcus nor Loser knew for sure. One version was that they had got into a fight in a club while they were both trying to pick up the same girl. Krank had once told the rest of the guys that he had picked Gretchen up in a mall while day-gaming, most often on the street, in malls or at college campuses. Gretchen had just about wet herself laughing when she’d heard that one. She told them that there was no way, game or no game, Krank was her type. Not that there wasn’t a connection between them. There was. They both acknowledged it. They were like twins who had been separated at birth. They would finish each other’s sentences; they knew what the other would do in a situation before they had done it. They seemed able to read each other’s mind. At first, to someone who didn’t know them, it was entertaining, if a little spooky. After a while it was more than spooky. It was frightening.

Krank and Gretchen were like two Great White Sharks that had decided to hunt together. And hunt they did. First for women as sexual conquests and, when that became unfulfilling, for more than that. Worse, they seemed to feed off each other. Gretchen would do something outrageous, and Krank would feel compelled to go one step further.

Again the details had been lost but Loser had told Marcus it was Gretchen who had killed first and that was what had given Krank the taste for it. Loser also said that all the cute stories about how they’d met were a lie. The real story was duller. They had met online, on a message-board that Krank moderated, which was dedicated to the men’s rights movement. It seemed counter-intuitive but perhaps the most radical voices in the movement, and the most outspoken, were women opposed to feminism.

Loser’s story, that Krank and Gretchen had met online, had made more sense to Marcus. He had found a freedom online that he felt was denied him in the real world. He could build relationships with strangers that went deeper than anything his offline life offered. Anonymity, far from distancing him from others, had made him more relaxed, freer to be the person he wanted to become.

But however Krank and Gretchen had met and joined forces, Marcus knew that Gretchen held a special place in their group. She was the alpha female to Krank’s alpha male. At times she was more alpha than he was. As was the way of these things in their world, Gretchen had become the leader of their leader. She carried herself that way. Tonight was no exception.

Gretchen slammed her hand down on the kitchen counter. ‘You still got that bitch out back?’ she asked.

‘You wanna go visit?’ Krank said, laying down his iPad on the table.

‘Depends,’ said Gretchen. She leered at them. ‘How’s she taste? Fish goes off, y’ know.’

Krank reached into his pocket and dug out a set of keys. He threw them over to MG. ‘You go with Gretchen,’ he said. ‘Maybe she can teach you a few things about manning up.’

Marcus had been dreading something like this. It was bad enough being alone with Gretchen. She scared him in a way that not even Krank did. Krank could do messed-up stuff, but he could give you a reason. There was a belief system that seemed to underpin his actions. He was driven by the desire to stand up for men, to help return the world to a time before feminism screwed everything up in America.

Gretchen was different. From what he could tell she did things for the sake of them. Or because she enjoyed them. He knew that she liked to inflict pain. Not just the physical kind either. She would watch the news when she came over sometimes. If someone was being interviewed about a terrible tragedy she yelled for everyone to be quiet and turned up the volume. She would peer at the screen with this huge grin on her face. The more upset the person was, the more Gretchen seemed to enjoy it. It creeped him out. And now here he was, pushing open the door and stepping into the shack with her.

The girl startled at the noise. She had been sitting next to the back wall when he had opened the door. Marcus’s stomach turned over as he thought back to what she had looked like only a few short days ago. She had been vibrant, beautiful, and now she looked less than human. It was the way her eyes darted about, like an animal’s did when it was trapped and frightened. Her every movement was cramped and furtive. As Gretchen moved toward her, the girl flinched.

Marcus held back. Gretchen hunkered down next to the girl. ‘It’s okay, sweetie,’ she said, stroking the girl’s hair. ‘I’m here. Now, what have these horrible boys been doing to you, huh?’

A few moments later, Marcus closed his eyes as the girl screamed. It was a low, guttural scream, the kind of sound an animal might make as it was being pushed toward its death in a slaughterhouse with barriers on either side to make sure there would be no escape. The screaming subsided, replaced by low moans. All the while Gretchen spoke softly to the girl, her words at odds with the pain she was inflicting.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It will all be over soon.’

After a few minutes, Krank burst in. He was carrying a bundle of rags. He stormed over to Gretchen. ‘The whole neighborhood can hear her. You want to have the cops show up?’

‘They’ll think someone’s watching a movie,’ said Gretchen. ‘Hey, that’s an idea. We should have filmed this.’ She dug into her pocket for her phone.

Krank grabbed her wrist. ‘You’re not filming anything here.’

Gretchen shook him off and jammed her phone back into her pocket.

The girl flinched as Krank grabbed a handful of her hair. He pulled her head back. Marcus saw her eyes roll back in her head for the briefest of moments as she slipped out of the present. He hoped, for her sake, that she might stay like that. A few seconds later she came to and the screaming started up again.

Gretchen helped Krank hold her as he shoved one of the rags into the girl’s mouth. She must have nipped him because he yelped a little and drew back his hand, shaking it violently. He looked at the damage, clenched his fist, drew back his arm and punched her full in the face.

‘That was hot,’ said Gretchen. ‘Do it again.’

‘Shut the hell up,’ Krank shot back, as he found purchase, and got the rag into the girl’s mouth.

He stepped back and admired his handiwork. With the fingers of his left hand he worried at the edge of the right where she’d bitten him. Marcus could hear the girl’s breath whistling through her nose.

Gretchen had a knife in her hand. It was small, the kind of knife a chef would use to debone a piece of chicken. She held it up to the girl’s left eye. ‘Don’t have to watch if you don’t want to, sweetie.’

Marcus swallowed hard. This wasn’t what he had signed up for. He might have fantasized about having his revenge on all the girls who had rejected and humiliated him but not like this. He looked across at Krank.

‘Want Gretchen to stop, MG?’ Krank said, anticipating his thoughts. Krank could always do that. Sometimes Marcus believed that Krank knew what they were thinking before the thought had even formed.

Marcus nodded as Gretchen looked back over her shoulder at him.

‘You guys are no fun,’ said Gretchen, as she slashed the air in front of the girl’s face and she flinched. Her body was shaking now, like someone who had been plunged into a freezing cold bath. Marcus could smell urine.

Krank walked over to him, and pulled a short, snub-nosed revolver from the waistband of his pants. He held it out toward him. ‘Up to you, MG. Either Gretchen keeps going or you do the right thing here.’

Marcus swallowed again. It hurt. He could feel himself close to tears. He couldn’t afford to cry in front of either Krank or Gretchen, he knew that. They already saw him as weak. If he broke down now he might be next to face Gretchen’s wrath. He doubted her sadism was limited to young women. That was merely her preference.

He knew what Krank was asking him to do. He took the gun from him. He thumbed back the hammer and walked over to the girl. Gretchen stood off to one side.

‘This I have to see,’ said Gretchen.

Marcus shoved past her. Krank stood next to him. ‘Go ahead, MG. And remember, you’re a soldier. This isn’t personal. We have to show these bitches who’s boss. Take back our country. That’s all.’

The gun raised, Marcus stepped off to the side. He moved back and aimed at the side of the girl’s head. He could see her straining to twist round and look at him. His hand was trembling as he found the trigger. It took more pressure than he had imagined as he squeezed. At the last minute, he closed his eyes.

The gun went off. It was loud. There was a buzzing in his ears. Above it he could hear Gretchen laughing. He opened his eyes and saw her doubled over with laughter. She was looking straight at him.

‘You missed!’ she said, between gusts of mirth.

Marcus looked at the girl. Her chin was resting on her chest, her eyes closed, but she was unharmed.

Gretchen’s cackles continued. ‘How the hell does someone miss from a foot? Oh, man, MG, you’re such a little pussy.’

Marcus felt the rage surge. He raised the gun back up and fired, his eyes open. This time the bullet found the girl’s head, tearing off her jaw. He adjusted his aim, and fired again. He fired twice more into her, and she slumped. The final shot must have caught her neck because blood arced from her, spraying his face. He stepped back and swiped at it with the back of his hand. He could taste it on his lips, salty, metallic.

He felt Krank grasp his shoulder and squeeze. ‘There you go, MG. I knew you’d get over the line. Proud of you, man.’

Marcus turned to look at Krank first, then Gretchen. Gretchen’s laughter had faded. The look on her face had changed. She seemed to be weighing him differently. There was a little fear mixed in there too. At least, Marcus hoped there was.

The horror subsided. He felt a rush rise up in him. It was as if he was somehow taller. He looked down at his T-shirt, stained with blood, and the gun in his hand. He felt good. He was ready for whatever came next. He had finally killed, and now he understood a little better why the others said it was better than sex.

34

Within only forty minutes’ warning, Lock had to haul ass from his condo in the Palisades to downtown so he could meet the security guard from the apartment complex in a coffee shop. He didn’t blame the guy for not wanting to meet up anywhere near the Marina. For all LA’s sprawl, its neighborhoods were small towns. What the guard was doing was cause for dismissal and, as low-paid security work went, you could do a lot worse than signing people in and out of a pricey apartment complex at Marina Del Rey.

Lock grabbed some water and took a seat inside at a corner table that gave him a good view of the entrance. The sidewalk was busy as office workers flitted back and forth. Across the street a construction crew were at work.

He saw Ramón, the security guard, walking toward the door of the coffee shop. He was dressed in grey pants and a white shirt with a tie, a belt containing the spill of a gut that came from sitting in a guard booth for most of the day. His head was on a swivel. He pushed through the door and made for Lock’s table.

Lock got up and motioned for him to sit down. ‘You want anything? Coffee? Water?’ he asked the man.

It seemed a complicated question for the guy, though his lack of clear decision-making might have come down to nerves. ‘No. Yeah, wait a minute. I’ll take a water.’

‘Do me a favor?’ said Lock. The guard glanced up from a folded piece of paper he had pulled from his inside jacket pocket, and gave him an expectant look. ‘Chill out. This ain’t WikiLeaks, ’kay? No one’s following you, and apart from me, no one gives a shit about any of this.’

It seemed to work. The guard managed an uncertain smile. ‘Can I get a muffin?’

‘Sure thing,’ said Lock, heading to the counter where he picked up a water and a couple of muffins. He paid and sat back down across from the guard.

The guard smoothed the paper out on the table in front of Lock. ‘I figured it was easier just to write the names down. I didn’t know if you wanted all the dates and stuff but I can get those.’

Lock picked up the paper and began to scan what was a very brief list. In the six months Marcus Griffiths had lived there he’d had seven visitors. Four were men. Three were women. One of the men named was Teddy Griffiths. One of the women was Tarian. That took it down to five people that Lock wasn’t aware of.

Teddy Griffiths had said that the leader of the group of kids Marcus had gotten mixed up with was Asian. There was only one obviously Asian-American name on the piece of paper. Charles Kim. Lock would start with him and work his way to the others. The problem he had was that, when it came to surnames, Kim was about as common as Smith or Jones. Charles wasn’t much better. He could guess an approximate age but that still left a lot of young men in their twenties in the greater Los Angeles area.

The guard had already demolished one muffin leaving only a scattering of crumbs on the table top. He pointed at the second. ‘You going to eat that? Hate to see waste.’

‘Go right ahead,’ said Lock, fishing an envelope from his back pocket and sliding it with the muffin toward the guard. ‘Thanks for your help with this.’

The guard shrugged, seemingly more excited by the prospect of a second muffin than the additional
three hundred dollars
in fresh bills tucked into the envelope. He pawed some more muffin into his mouth with the tips of his fingers. ‘My wife’s got me on this diet. Like a paleo thing. You heard of that shit? It’s like nuts. I mean, literally, she sends me into work with these big bags of nuts and shit. I tried to tell her, like, “Baby, there’s a reason we left that kinda thing behind,” but she won’t listen.’

‘This guy here,’ Lock said, cutting short the chit-chat about diet crazes with a finger tap at the list. ‘Charles Kim. You remember him any?’

‘Yeah, real nice kid. Very funny. Always took the time to ask me how I was. Most people don’t make the effort, know what I’m saying?’

‘Can you describe him? How old do you think he was? How tall? Any tattoos? Anything I can use to track him down?’

The second muffin was gone. The guard licked the end of his right index finger and started dabbing at the crumbs before popping the finger into his mouth. At least Lock knew that he could keep him talking with another muffin. Hell, he could probably have skipped the cash entirely and gone for a basket of pastries instead.

‘He was twenties, maybe like twenty-five, twenty-six. Didn’t see any ink on him, Always dressed preppy. Not crazy big but like he worked out.’

‘How tall?’ pressed Lock.

Another dab of crumbs disappeared from the table top. ‘Can’t help you with that. He was always in his car.’

‘You remember what he drove?’

‘Sure. BMW 5-series. Dark blue or black. I remember thinking it was a nice car for a kid that age. I kinda thought that maybe he was dealing or something.’

‘Because of his ride?’ Lock asked.

‘Well,’ said the guard, ‘that and the fact that one time I saw he had a handgun. It must have slipped out from the under the seat when he stopped to talk to me. I acted like I hadn’t seen it. Car guns aren’t that uncommon in this town.’

‘What kind of gun?’

‘I don’t know. Like a Glock. Something like that.’

Lock spent another twenty minutes running through the rest of the names. The details on the other visitors that the guard could remember were sketchier. Charles Kim was the one who had stood out, which fitted with what Teddy Griffiths had told him. It was always dangerous to assume too much, but Charles Kim sounded like the real name of Krank.

The other male visitors were white and in their twenties. One was dressed rather flamboyantly (‘Kinda like a pimp. Looked dumb as hell to me, a white boy trying to pass like Superfly’) but that was it for defining characteristics.

Of the two women who had visited, all the guard could recall was that they were both early twenties and white. They had only visited Marcus once, maybe twice at most, and that had been some time ago, closer to when he had first moved in. He thought that one had been ‘kinda alternative-looking’ but when Lock pressed him he wasn’t sure.

Lock thanked him with a couple more emergency muffins, and watched the guy leave while he held back. Five minutes later, Lock walked back to his car, which was parked near the Federal building. He dug out his own laptop, drove out of the parking structure and pulled over to the side of the street as soon as he had a decent enough internet connection.

Opening a secure, anonymized browser he began to search for Charles Kim. When broad search engine results yielded too many hits to be of any use, he logged on to a pre-paid account at one of the web’s many people-finder and background-check sites.

An initial search for Los Angeles threw back around twenty results. About two-thirds had ages attached to them. Lock discounted anyone in their forties or over. That left him with four men named Charles Kim under the age of forty, who were living, or who had lived recently, in the greater Los Angeles area.

He bore down into the results. Ten minutes later he had a shortlist of just two names. The first Charles Miller Kim was a twenty-seven-year-old with an address in La Puente. Lock made a note of the address. He had a cell number and could have called ahead, but that would have meant letting the guy know he was looking for him. In turn that could make him harder to speak to face to face.

He worked the other names on the list. They were less common and he quickly located the other visitors to Marcus Griffiths’s apartment without any great difficulty.

Lock closed his laptop and headed back to the Audi. He got in and set his GPS for the address he had in La Puente. There was one more thing about the two Charles Kims he had to speak to. It could prove significant or not, but it was one of the first things he had looked for. Neither of them had a criminal record. Nor did any of the other visitors – with one exception.

One of the female visitors, twenty-five-year-old Gretchen Yorda, not only had a criminal record, she’d done time. Once he’d found Krank, Lock figured she’d be next on his list of people to speak to.