Jericho's Razor (17 page)

I made a pot of coffee and spent the night finishing the book. It seemed sacrilegious to be typing scenes of murder and mayhem after all that happened. But writing was more than just me trying to focus and vent my inner demons. It was also my job.

But I was at a crossroads. After seeing Christian's fictional acts carried out in stark reality, I wrote with the new fear that someday somebody else would use my work as inspiration to commit more horrors. I knew that I would never again be able to write him with the same vigor that fans had come to expect. Christian Black had been my paycheck, my surrogate, and my freedom. He kept me living comfortably without having to get a real job. But now he felt like an anchor.

I decided on a compromise. Christian Black would go down in a blaze of glory. In his final act of violence, he would be taken down by a pair of cops who had discovered his secret. Every writer struggles with the prospect of someday killing off the character that made him popular. Most would never consider it. But I felt the decision had been made for me. It would bring a reaction. Many fans would feel cheated. But it had to be done, consequences be damned.

As always, I wrote with the drumstick close at hand and twirled it whenever I took a pause from the keyboard. It had been a gift from Kat, one from her favorite set when she was in her previous band and pounded the skins. She received the set from a fan who was born and raised in Haiti before moving to the area. He told Kat a story of an exorcism performed on a young boy who was possessed by an evil demon. According to the legend, the evil spirit left the boy during the ceremony and entered the drumsticks, thus placing a curse on whoever held them. Kat didn't buy it. She figured the guy probably bought the sticks online and made up the story to try and impress her. But they were mysterious and beautiful and quickly became her favorite. After only a few shows, she retired them to her bookshelf, not wanting to risk breaking them by beating against her Zildjians. I asked about them during my first visit to her house. She told me the story and then gave me one, saying with a smile, “Now we're both cursed, Sandman.”

She hadn't been kidding. We were history, the drumstick was covered in dust and I was left to wonder if I needed a new talisman.

By midnight, I had a completed draft that was ready to send to my publisher. I stared at the message telling me that the document had been sent. New York was one hour ahead. At one o' clock in the morning, there would be nobody there to receive it. The phone call would come soon enough. Publishers are even less eager to see the “money character” die than the fans. If a writer makes such a decision, they had damn sure better have another lucrative character loaded in the chamber.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge, stood at the window and watched lights on the Murray Baker Bridge pass across the black river.

My cell vibrated. I wondered what would happen if it was the Slasher. Would I ask if it was Eli? Would he tell me? How would I react if he did? I picked up the phone.

But it was just Jagger.

“I wanted to let you know that Wozniak lawyered up. He's sitting in lockup right now and not saying a thing.”

“What do you think? Is it him?”

I heard her sigh. “I would love to say yes. But I'm not seeing it. I think he's just another lowlife who doesn't like cops.”

“So ... back to square one.”

“Looks that way. Unless you have something else to offer. It seemed like you had something you wanted to tell me earlier.”

Again, I wanted to tell her. In my hesitation, I got a call waiting. The number was listed as “unknown.”

“Jagger, I have to go.”

“Who's calling you at midnight? Is it him?”

“Uh, no,” I said, not wanting her to know it could be Eli on the line. “It's Kat.”

“Sure. I get it. Well, don't let me keep you from a booty call, stud.”

Jagger hung up and I switched to the other call, knowing who it was but still not ready for it.

“Hello, big brother. Long time.”

Eli's voice rasped through the phone line. It was a bad connection, like he was calling someplace with weak coverage. But there was no mistaking it. It was the voice from my childhood. The voice with which I would debate subjects like cars and girls and baseball. The voice that would tell me some stupid joke that would make me hunch over with laughter. The voice that I had not heard for years, but was still instantly familiar.

“You there Jericho?”

“I'm here. We need to talk. Where are you?”

“Why do you want to know? Are you going to send the cops again?”

“No. And I didn't send the cops last night.”

“So it was just a coincidence that a patrol car was lurking down there?”

“Yes, Eli. It was a coincidence. Cops are down there all the time. And after two murders, cops tend to be patrolling all over the place.”

“Whatever.”

I stepped away from the window and started to pace. “Look, I know what you're doing. It has to stop.”

“You know what
I'm
doing? It doesn't even look like you know what
you
are doing.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That sting at the bookstore was so obvious.”

“You were there?”

“I was closer than you think,” he said. “You actually looked my way a couple of times.”

I hadn't seen my younger brother in over fifteen years. But there had been no doubt in my mind that I would recognize him on sight. We had been nearly identical once. Same eyes. Same hair. Same build. Unlike our other siblings, Eli and I shared a mother. It was a bond we had shared growing up, a thread that kept us tight though Peter's tirades. I had not even considered the possibility that I would fail to spot him. It made me think about all the ways he had changed since we shared a bedroom.

“When you were outside, I saw you talking to that cop. Alyssa Jagger. You were practically drooling.”

His mention of Jagger caught me by surprise.

“How do you know her name?”

“It was in the paper, genius. But I guess you're still just reading the Sports Page.”

“Jagger isn't the issue, Eli.”

“You're wrong about that. She's very much the issue. And she needs to die. Immediately.”

“Nobody else has to die, Eli. We can stop this. Meet me somewhere. Anywhere. I'll leave right now.”

“I don't think so. I think I just have to take care of things myself.”

“I see how you're taking care of things, Eli! What the hell are you trying to prove? That you're better than Peter? That he should have chosen you to take up the family business?”

“Why not? I was the one who had our mother die in his arms! I was the one who went to prison while you got rich!”

“Is that what this is about, Eli? Money? How much do you want?”

“No, you idiot!”

“And don't forget that Mom was no better than Peter. She killed people too. The feds uncovered it all later.”

“Yes, I read the report, Jericho. Their victims were hardly people. They were killers and pimps and drug dealers. They were scum.”

“Scum like Booker? Scum like Watts? What are you saying?”

“You're not even hearing what I am saying! I don't know why I thought you would!”

“All I know is you're sounding a lot like the old man.”

“Maybe. But there were a few things the old man was actually right about when it came to you.”

“Such as?”

“You see only what you want, how you want, when you want. You can't step back and see the big picture. You never could. And it's why you're missing the big picture about what's happening right now.”

He hung up. I threw my phone against the wall in frustration. It shattered like the broken television in the Blue Note and fell in a shower of plastic. No wonder Gus kept a damages tab for me.

“Well played, dumbass,” I muttered to myself.

Chapter Thirteen

The clerk looked at me like I crapped on his shoes when he saw my phone lying in a twisted heap on the counter.

“What did you do to this?”

“I didn't do anything to it. But the wall it crashed into smashed it to hell.”

The clerk swept away my wreck of a phone into a cardboard box. He explained that it had been six months old and therefore a dinosaur, and talked me into the latest model, state of the art, which meant it would be antiquated in another six months. It came with a car charger, headphones, and an instruction packet thicker than some of my novels.

I had six missed calls. All from my agent. He sent three text messages as well, all demanding that I call him immediately. I dialed him in New York, where a secretary put me through, telling me that he had been anxiously awaiting my call.

“Jericho. Jesus, buddy, I tried calling you almost a dozen times. I started to get worried this Slasher character got you.”

“Nothing like that. My phone had an accident.”

“What did you do, smash it? Seems likely, since you are clearly not in your right mind. How could you blindside me by sending off a final draft that kills your main character? The publisher is furious!”

“Bullshit. Publishers care about product and bottom line, just like any business. You've been telling me the Christian Black sales have been sagging lately. A book featuring his death in a blaze of glory will be just the thing to give it a jump-start.”

“Maybe. But what comes
next
?”

“I'll think of something.”

“On that note …”

He went on to pitch me an idea for an in-depth account of the investigation for the River City Slasher. It would be the investigation as seen through my eyes, beginning with finding Sean Booker's headless corpse in my garage and including my brief time as a suspect. Never mind that the killer was still at large. The details would work themselves out eventually.

“True crime is making a comeback. The book would be a bestseller. We may even get a movie deal. Johnny Depp can play you.”

“Johnny Depp? You can't be serious.”

“I'll admit, you look nothing alike, and he is way older than you. The important thing is he has loads of experience playing crazy writers.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it,” he said, missing the sarcasm. “Crank out a synopsis and email it to me by the end of the week. No pressure.”

I hung up and smoked a cigarette, still feeling rattled from my conversation with Eli. Despite the fact that it had been several years since I had seen my brother, I had been certain I would spot him easily. We were family. Blood. No amount of time and no disguise should be able to hide that. But Eli managed to walk right in and out of our trap unscathed. I remembered the younger brother who would spend hours sitting in a blind, in the rain, tracking a wild boar or elk, waiting for that perfect moment to shoot his target. Eli's patience at the hunt was a skill I never possessed and was a little envious of.

Now he had announced his next target.

She needs to die. Immediately.

Jagger was smart and a good cop. But it was time she knew what she was up against. Knowing I was in for a difficult conversation, I dialed Alyssa Jagger'.

We agreed to meet back at the diner. Jagger was sitting in the same booth we had occupied the previous day. Torrez sat next to her.

“You had to bring him, huh?

“Eddie's my partner, Sands. We're a set. However, we're both extremely busy, so why don't you tell us why we're here?”

Our server came and I ordered coffee. Jagger and Torrez both passed. I made them wait until my cup was in front of me.

“That old man I spoke to under the viaduct? He told me more than I admitted.”

They both waited. The diner may as well have been the interrogation room. They were both good enough to let me talk without interrupting. I told them about the message relayed by the old man, about my brother being in town, apparently looking for vengeance. That did not get much of a reaction, so I continued and told them about the threat to Jagger. Her head tilted slightly, as though pondering a new and unexpected piece of a puzzle. But that was all the reaction she showed. I didn't see anything in her expression that indicated concern.