I Hunt Killers (11 page)

“Probably nothing. Might be her birthstone. Or the birthstone of someone important to her. Or maybe she just liked the color red.” He resisted the urge to throw the thing back into the creek. It was a clue, yes, but so far useless.

“There’s some writing in it,” Howie said, pointing. He had a different angle on the ring.

Sure enough, there were letters engraved along the inside of the band. Together, Jazz and Howie recited them as they tilted their flashlight beams back and forth in order to pick out the details of the engraving:

“Four-F-G-dash-D-R.”

They looked at each other and then back down at the ring:

4FG-DR

“Well,” Howie said after a long silence. “
That
explains everything, doesn’t it?”

The Impressionist unfolded the sheet of paper he kept in his pocket at all times. Right front pants pocket. All the time. That way, he always knew where it was.

He didn’t really need the paper anymore. He had long since memorized its contents, not merely the words in the correct order, but also the particulars of the handwriting itself—the loops of the
O
s, the jagged slashes of the
F
s and
T
s. He was certain that, if called upon, he could reproduce the contents of the paper right down to the tiny stutter in the word
field
, the stutter where the pen had clogged for an instant and made a slight skip and an almost-imperceptible blotch on the paper before once again giving a smooth line.

The paper held the Impressionist’s instructions. They were sacred to him. No matter how well he knew those instructions, he would never throw away that paper.

So far, he had followed his instructions precisely to the letter. With one exception, of course.

The boy.

Jasper Dent.

The next morning—Tuesday morning—the Impressionist sat in the Coff-E-Shop on Main Street in Lobo’s Nod, thinking of wolves and sheep and sheep’s clothing. Thinking of the Trojan horse.

Thinking, too, of his next victim.

He wondered—idly, for it did not matter greatly one way or the other—if the boy had found the ring yet. He had followed Jasper enough to puzzle out that the boy was running his own investigation beyond the sheriff’s. The Impressionist wasn’t particularly worried about either of them actually catching him. That just wouldn’t happen. But he knew that the sheriff would never find the ring. Tanner was burned out after catching one serial killer and didn’t have the chops to catch a second. Jasper might find the ring, but then what? Would he be able to decipher its meaning in time?

In the meantime, his next victim lived here in town. In fact, he could summon her now, easily, and did so with a single raised finger.

The waitress came to him, flashing him a quick, practiced smile.
HELEN,
her nametag read. Helen, he was sure, was thinking of nothing more than refilling his coffee. And then maybe retreating into the kitchen for a moment’s respite before taking the orders of three college-age kids who’d just stumbled through the door with the air of demanding, hungover hunger.

“Thank you,” the Impressionist said to her with great earnestness.

Her practiced smile widened into something a bit more genuine—maybe this guy would be worth more of a tip than the usual cheapskates left.

The Impressionist, for his part, returned her smile, then watched her refill his coffee, watched the tendons in her forearm go taut, watched the bend of her wrist.

Watched her slender, elegant fingers on the handle of the carafe.

Her fingers.

Just noticing.

That same morning, Jazz, running on only five hours’ sleep, blew off both coffee with Howie and homeroom to return to the sheriff’s office. It wasn’t quite eight, and Lana hadn’t come in yet for the morning shift. A lone deputy sat at a desk in a corner, mousing around on a website. Deputy Erickson was nowhere to be seen, which made Jazz gladder than he’d like to admit.

He walked past the empty receptionist’s desk and straight back to G. William’s office. G. William, an early riser, was always the first person in the office, and today was no exception.

“Where’s the new guy?” Jazz asked as he barged in without knocking. “Figured he’d be an early bird, catching the worm, all that stuff.”

“Even deputies get days off, Jazz,” G. William said. “I’m willing to bet you’re not here to check the man’s time card, though.”

“I figured it out,” Jazz announced. He tossed a plastic sandwich bag on G. William’s desk—he’d taped it shut and stuck a label on it recording where and when he’d found the toe ring.

G. William flicked a glance at the ring and then pushed it aside. “Little early in the morning for shenanigans, Jazz. Okay with you if I get my coffee first?”

“I figured out who Jane Doe is,” Jazz said in disbelief, following G. William to the office’s ancient coffee machine. It reeked of years of burned coffee. “Don’t you care?”

G. William said nothing as he poured the day’s first coffee into his cup. He said nothing as he took his first sip, winced so much his mustache quivered, then marched back into his office and planted himself behind his desk. And he
still
said nothing as he nursed a swallow of more coffee and finally held up the makeshift evidence bag, squinting at the ring within.

“I don’t want to hear you tell me you went to the crime scene,” G. William said. “In fact, if I hear you tell me that, I’ll have to do official things, you read me?”

Jazz fidgeted for a moment, then said, “I was at the creek. On the Harrison property. That’s not technically the crime scene. Although it should have been from the start.” He couldn’t keep a note of haughty disdain out of his voice.

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed.

“Her initials are F.G.,” Jazz said, determined to prove to G. William that he knew what he was doing. “The ring’s inscription. It took me a while, but I figured it out. It looks like a code—Howie said it looks like a robot’s name—but it’s a dedication. ‘For F.G., from D.R.’ Weird to get a toe ring engraved, I guess, but it takes all kinds, right? You can do a cross-check on national databases for missing persons with the initials—”

“Her name’s Fiona Goodling,” G. William said in a flat tone. “Went missing two weeks ago outside Atlanta. Boyfriend’s name is Doug Reeve. Occasionally—if you let us use both hands
and
a flashlight—we poor, pathetic cops can find our own asses.”

Jazz felt a shameful blush burn across both cheeks and touch as far back as his ears. “Oh,” was all he could think of to say.

“She spent her summers teaching swim classes for kids at the YMCA, so she had to have a background check, fingerprinting, the whole nine yards. I got the call from IAFIS last night at home. Was just about to call her family.”

Jazz could still think of nothing to say. He’d been so convinced that he knew better than the cops what was going on, that he was the only one who could crack this case.

And now he felt…
withered
under G. William’s glare. It was one thing to defy the sheriff, breach a crime scene, and interfere with an investigation if you were the only hope. It was another thing entirely when all you did was confirm what the cops already knew.

G. William stared at him, as if daring him to speak.

And Jazz decided that he wasn’t afraid of G. William.

“Is Atlanta PD going to set up a task force? You’ll need to be involved. You—”

“Jazz,” G. William said in a not-unkind tone of voice. “You got serial killers on the brain, kid, and I understand that, but this isn’t a serial killer.”

“Cutting off the fingers—”

“Serial killers,” G. William went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “have well-defined comfort zones that they kill in. Jeopardy surfaces. No serial killer is going to kill a woman in Atlanta and then drive her body all the way here to dump it. It’s too far out of his home turf.”

“Billy had a comfort zone the size of the country,” Jazz snarled. “The size of the world. You should know that. You of all people.”

The sheriff’s expression hardened. Whatever reservoir of sympathy he had for Jazz, it wasn’t deep enough to put up with that kind of back talk. “Her family will appreciate getting this back.” He gestured to the toe ring. “And I’m warning you: Stay the hell out of my crime scenes.”

“You have to go public. You have to leak that someone saw something that night. Force the guy to come in and give some excuse for why he was seen there. That’s how you—”

“Don’t tell me my business!” G. William thundered, rising from his chair. His face went from white to red to purple in less than a second. “Don’t you dare tell me! Not when it comes to this!”

Jazz backed up to the door. “There will be more killings,” he said as darkly as he knew how.

For Billy Dent’s son, that was pretty dark. G. William seemed visibly shaken. “I gave you a warning. Heed it. And isn’t today a school day?”

Jazz opened his mouth to speak, but knew that whatever he said would be lost on G. William, so instead he left.

Jazz got to school halfway through first period and tried to persuade the assistant principal that he’d had car trouble and couldn’t make it on time. Usually he could charm his way into or out of just about anything, but this morning he was rattled and off his game. And the bags under his eyes gave him away—the assistant principal gave him a “Nice try” and sent him off to second period (the bell had rung by then) with an admonition not to “stay up partying all night.” If only she’d known what Jazz had really been doing the night before.

He saw Howie in the hallway and told him what G. William had said, but now that they had the victim’s name, “Jane Doe” was old news to him. “I just wanna know when my new tattoo happens, man.”

Oh. Right. Jazz’s skin was already crawling at the thought of it. “I’m sorta busy right now, Howie. Maybe next week.”

He grumbled and growled his way through school. Connie tried to soothe him, but he was having none of it. “I got out-investigated by G. William,” he told her at lunch. They were outside on the front lawn of the school, huddled under a tree together for shade from the fall sun. It was late October, just chilly enough that the lawn was sparsely populated and they had privacy. “That’s bad enough. But he still doesn’t believe me when I say it’s a serial killer.”

“First of all,” she told him, offering him a grape, which he accepted, “look at it this way: He’s got the whole world of law enforcement behind him, and you just had Howie, but you still kept up with him. Second of all, I am still going to kick your butt for going out and doing something that stupid after you said you wouldn’t. Third of all, maybe he’s right—maybe you’re too quick to think it’s a serial killer. Which makes perfect sense,” she added. “And fourth of all,” she finished, “I’m going to kick your butt for going out like that last night after you said you wouldn’t.”

“You said that twice.”

“Then I will kick your butt twice.”

But she really got angry when he told her that he couldn’t come to play practice. The school had a very strict policy: Students who missed a day or part of a day without an excuse could not participate in extracurricular activities that same day. Jazz was forbidden to attend rehearsal.

Ginny found him in the hallway just as school was ending and cornered him. She was a tiny thing, barely five feet tall, but her acting training gave her an outsized presence. “Jasper! Do you remember the first day of auditions?”

“Uh, yes.” He looked around for a way out. There was none. “I guess Connie ratted me out?”

“Don’t try to distract me. Do you remember when I said that being in this play was a commitment, that it was a commitment to me and to your fellow actors and to yourself?”

“Sure do.” He had a vague recollection.

“Then why are you letting me down today? Why are you letting your castmates down? Most important of all, why are you letting yourself down?”

Jazz groaned inside. Guilt trips rarely worked on him, but he knew what was expected of him, so he played his part.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “But look—I’ve been off-book longer than anyone else. I’m not going to lose anything between today and tomorrow.”

“It’s not about that, Jasper. It’s about you living up to your word. It’s about you being there for the other people in the play, who are counting on you.”

“I’m really sorry,” Jazz said again, this time ramping up the sincerity. He had more important things to do than bang swords with Ginny Davis and her teeny, tiny anger. She was such a comical figure that Jazz almost wanted to pick her up by the waist and bob her up and down in the air, cooing,
Who’s angry? Who’s the angriest widdle one?

“It won’t happen again,” he promised, throwing out the most earnest, defeated, wounded expression in his arsenal.

She melted in an instant, holding out her arms. Jazz froze. There was just no way in the world he would let her hug him.

And then Ginny took advantage of his paralysis and threw her arms around him, squeezing him tight.

And he felt…

Everything.

He was acutely aware of the pressure and the presence of her body, of the tickle of her curly hair just under his nose, of the small, firm, outthrust breasts against his lower rib cage.

Of the smell of her.

More than that, though, he was aware of the fragility of her. Of her breakability. He thought of his gloved hands at Fiona Goodling’s neck, of the killer’s gloved hands, of Billy’s gloved hands, of trophies and fingers and knives.

He was terrified of sex.

Like every teenage boy, he was obsessed with it, of course, and wanted to have as much of it as humanly possible as soon as humanly possible, but unlike every teenage boy, he couldn’t let himself. The very thought of it absolutely petrified him. Sex was like lighter fluid for people like him. Connie was safe because…

Well, Connie was safe, but Ginny felt warm and perfect and
vulnerable
—

“I’m sorry I had to be so rough on you,” she said, backing away, utterly unaware of what she’d done to him. “Don’t be late tomorrow, okay?”

Escaping school—and Ginny Davis’s clutches—Jazz stood in the parking lot for a few minutes, clearing his head before he dared get behind the wheel. As he headed home, he ran down a mental to-do list. He had to find a way to prove to G. William that Fiona Goodling (and how strange it felt not to think of her as Jane Doe any longer) was the victim of a serial killer. He couldn’t explain how or why he was so sure—he just was. Those missing fingers…Leaving the middle finger. Taking the others…It sounded like something Billy might have come up with. It was impertinent. It was rude.

Jazz suddenly slammed on the brakes. Fortunately, he’d turned down a side street with no traffic, so no one was around. Except for the guy lurking on the street corner.

Jeff Fulton.

Jazz couldn’t believe it was a coincidence and, sure enough, Fulton came running up to the driver’s side of the Jeep, waving his hands like he was trying to land a jet with semaphore flags. Take off? Stick around? Jazz kept his foot on the brake, but left the Jeep in drive so he could make a quick getaway.

He rolled down the window to the sound of Fulton gasping for breath.

“I’m glad I caught you,” he managed. “Been waiting there, figuring you’d drive by on your way from school. I know how this must look—”

“Are you stalking me, Mr. Fulton?” The idea both amused and horrified Jazz.

“What? No! God, no.” Fulton’s whole face twisted into a freakish paroxysm of guilt and shock, as though the very thought of such a notion had made him relive every lemon he’d ever bitten into in his life. “I just need to talk to you. Please, Jasper. I’m begging you.”

“Mr. Fulton, I really can’t help you.”

“But there’s a website out there. For your father’s victims. And on the discussion board, someone said that there’s a rumor that your father used to tell you everything. And I just have one question, just a single question. You don’t know how much this would mean to me. Please.”

Jazz’s spine went rigid. He knew about the website—www.dentedlives.com—where victims’ groups and families shared details, information, anger, and sympathy. As part of the deal that had spared him from the death penalty, Billy Dent had agreed to release information about his victims at rigorously specified times, though he hadn’t said
which
victims he would talk about at those times. As a result, every six months the website erupted with a flurry of posts and discussion, as the newest details of Billy’s depravities came to light.

Worse yet, of course, was that Billy
had
told Jazz a lot about his victims. Those stories became twisted bedtime yarns told to Jazz each night: The Sad Story of the Girl Who Tried to Get Away. The Guy Who Stopped Too Soon. The Woman with the Knife Who Didn’t Use It. These tales and more—over a hundred of them—jam-packed Jazz’s childhood brain like a sick volume of fairy tales. Only the pages had been shredded and then taped back together in some random, haphazard way, such that Jazz could recall a welter of vile images, conjure a lifetime’s worth of gore and sickness, but most of it without context. A psychiatrist who had examined him during his brief stay with Social Services had diagnosed him with a peculiar variety of post-traumatic stress disorder. He could remember finding human teeth in his father’s nightstand at the age of seven, for example, but he couldn’t remember where those teeth had come from. All he remembered was finding the teeth and—with a child’s innocence—playing with them like dice, not even realizing there was anything wrong with it, as though he could visit a friend’s house and find the same thing in a random cupboard or drawer.