The Closer (15 page)
Authors: Donn Cortez
A picture downloaded. It was one of the photos of Djinn-X Jack had taken during his interrogation.
He knew. The Patron knew that Djinn-X was dead.
In a second he was going to reveal it to the entire Pack….
Jack grabbed blindly for the power cord. He could still shut down the whole system, blame it on a power surge—
Too late.
PATRON: Deathkiss sent me this. I believe it is actually Deathkiss himself—and that the wounds you see are the Closer’s work.
Jack froze.
PATRON: We had a most interesting conversation. I believe the Closer does more than simply kill our kind—he tortures them. Not simply for pleasure, but for information.
Jack swallowed, then forced himself to type a reply.
DJINN-X: Then he’d never just try to wipe us out all at once. He’ll do the same thing we do— try to get us somewhere he can control the situation.
PATRON: Then we must offer him such a place.
GOURMET: Yes. And make sure he doesn’t leave it alive.
DJINN-X: We can’t risk the entire Pack. We should only send one of us to take him out, just in case.
ROAD RAGE: Well, it can’t be Djinn-X—as webmaster, you know too much that could be potentially damaging.
GOURMET: Agreed. Let me do it—I’d love to sample his gray cells.
PATRON: I have no problem with that.
Jack frowned. He’d scanned the Gourmet’s section, but he was still largely an unknown.
DJINN-X: Hang on. Maybe we should figure out how we’re gonna trap him before we decide who should make the kill.
ROAD RAGE: I have an idea. A competition.
GOURMET: Explain.
ROAD RAGE: All members of The Pack attend a large public event. Nobody can identify anybody else. We establish rules and objectives concerning prey, methods of killing and body disposal. Most importantly, we provide a space the Closer thinks he can control, one where he believes he can lie in wait and take us out one by one.
PATRON: A hunt. Where the prey is hunting the hunters, who are in turn hunting him. Elegant.
DJINN-X: I like it. And I’ve got just the thing for a killing floor—a big white panel truck. I don’t know about driving it all the way out to Nevada, though.
ROAD RAGE: Not a problem. I can obtain access to one easily enough here—and I don’t think our newest
member will object to driving from Seattle to Portland, do you?
GOURMET: Unlikely. Congratulations, Road Rage—you would seem to be the logical choice.
ROAD RAGE: Thank you. I’ll do my best.
They chose the Rose Quarter Memorial Coliseum as the hunting ground.
The Gourmet devised most of the rules. Jack wasn’t sure if he was the smartest member of the Pack, but he certainly portrayed himself as such—despite the fact that the hunt was simply a ruse, the guidelines were well thought out.
They titled the competition, “Anyone
you
can kill… I can kill
better.”
It was to take place next weekend, during a Home and Garden show. The place would be swarming with thousands of people, but security would be restricted to rent-a-cops; no actual police presence was expected.
Jack went out there the next afternoon to look around. He wandered down halls, poked his head in empty meeting rooms, rode escalators up and down.
He paid special attention to back areas. Jack had worked part-time in a hotel while he attended art school, and he knew as long as he looked like he belonged no one would question him. He took along a sealed cardboard box as a prop, and tried to look bored.
He scoped out the kitchens, the staff rooms and the storage areas. He noted the location of freight elevators, stairwells and administrative offices. No one bothered him.
He saved the loading dock and parking area for last. They were usually monitored, both by cameras and security guards. He didn’t linger.
When he was done, he went shopping.
The hunt was planned for Sunday; Stoltz rented a white panel truck Saturday morning, then spent the early afternoon at the Home and Garden show. It would have made an interesting place for an actual hunt, he thought as he wandered between the displays. He eyed a large, bearded man in a denim jacket inspecting a kitchen suite, and entertained a brief fantasy about the man stealing his parking spot. It ended with him following the man into the bathroom and shooting him on the toilet—
a crudely fitting end for such a crude human being,
he thought with satisfaction.
The Home and Garden show itself even provided him with the supplies he required. He purchased six large garbage bins—the plastic kind with a wheeled base—some rope and a heavy tarp. The bins were ostensibly for the victims of the contest, but only two would actually be used; one to hold the Closer’s body, and one to conceal his killer. The other four he dropped off at prearranged spots around the arena, in areas they wouldn’t seem out of place, then parked the truck in a lot across the street so he wouldn’t have far to move it in the morning.
Of course, there was always fine-tuning to be done. First, he strung the tarp inside, dividing the truck into a back section and a front, then secured the bins behind the tarp. Anyone entering the truck from the rear would see only the tarp; enticing them to step behind it would be easier than slamming the heavy rear door down.
He encountered a problem with the dimensions of the bin itself, so he walked back to the Home and Garden show and bought a few more things: a cordless tool with a serrated blade, four small plastic clamps and a hose.
Fortunately the bins were squared-off, not round, and butted up against one another nicely. He cut away most of the sidewalls of two of them, leaving only a thin lip running down each side. He used the plastic clamps to attach the lips together; from outside the bins would look like they were just standing side by side, but in fact they were now one, roomier unit. Stoltz could sit quite comfortably with his legs stretched out; it would be serviceable.
There. He was almost ready. He would stop at a grocery store and pick up some produce, and make himself another silencer tonight. In the morning he would add the rental truck to the many other white rental trucks in the Coliseum parking lot, and add a few final touches.
And then he would wait.
ANYONE YOU CAN KILL…
The rules are simple.
The Hunt begins at noon on Sunday. Method of termination must be personal—no poison, bombs or arson. Anyone is fair game, but different prey have different point values.
Body Disposal Units—plastic wheeled bins—have been placed in various areas. Click on the link below for a complete floor plan. These units are for your convenience; their use is not mandatory. However, in order to fairly judge the competition, all bodies must be transported to the central dump area to be counted. It doesn’t matter if the prey is alive when it gets there—as long as it doesn’t leave that way.
Using the dump area—a white panel truck—as a kill site is perfectly acceptable. You must call 555- 6661 from a local phone after 11:45
A
.
M
. to find out the license plate number and which parking lot the truck is in. Its rear access door will be locked from the outside; the combination is 12-17-64. The front doors will be open to provide alternative access, but the engine will be disabled to prevent theft. It’s unlikely anyone will steal the contents of the BDUs, but providing additional proof of a kill through visual documentation is encouraged.
Points are as follows:
White Adult Male—75
White Adult Female—100
Adolescent Male—50
Adolescent Female—75
Minority Female (any age)—150
Minority Male (any age)—125
Prepubescent Male—100
Prepubescent Female—150
Security Guard—50
This point system is based on the assumption that the harder it is to isolate the prey, the more they’re worth. Members of another race and sex are ranked highest, as are children. Security guards and male teenagers are worth the least, as both tend to be overconfident and curious.
The Hunt ends at six
P
.
M
., when the Home and Garden show closes. A final body count will be tallied and posted by our onsite representative.
Good luck, and good hunting.
Something wasn’t right.
Jack knew it even before he and Nikki pulled into the parking lot of the Coliseum in their van at 11:30
A
.
M
. He had helped plan the entire setup, had even been the one to suggest the last-minute phone ID of the truck. Road Rage would be recording a message in another few minutes, but he wouldn’t have to leave the truck to do it—he’d probably use his cell. Which meant there was no way Jack could find out which one of the dozens of white rental trucks was his, not right now—he’d have to wait and check the message, just like Deathkiss was supposed to do.
But something wasn’t right.
“Where you think it’ll be?” Nikki said. “Close to a loading dock to make it seem believable?” She wore dark sunglasses, a gray skater’s toque and a black track suit; she looked nothing like she did on the street.
“I don’t think so. More likely someplace low-traffic to cut down on potential witnesses.”
“Which will work for us, too. Road Rage’s the only Pack member even in town, and he should be sealed up in a big garbage bin right about now.”
“Yeah. But—” Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. My gut’s trying to tell me something.”
“If we’re gonna change the plan, we gotta do it now,” Nikki said. “They’re gonna expect the Closer to show up about two minutes after he finds out where the truck is so he doesn’t miss anyone. If you don’t, double-R is gonna know something’s wrong.”
“The plan is fine. It’s something else.”
“It’s different from the others, Jack. This guy knows you’re coming. And he’s not going to dick around with trying to take you alive, either—he’ll just put a bullet in you.”
“I’m not afraid,” Jack said softly. “Maybe I should be….”
“We can still call it off. Always trust your gut, you know that.”
“There’s too much at stake. If I take him out, they’ll think the Closer is gone for good. If they let down their guard—just a little—it’ll give me the opening I need.”
“Yeah, and then you’ll have
another
identity to juggle,” Nikki pointed out. “Deathkiss’ll be gone, but you’ll have to pose as Road Rage
and
Djinn-X from now on. Which means a lot more chances for
you
to screw up, too.”
“I can handle it.”
“Yeah, well… I’ll be there to watch your back, okay?”
Jack nodded, but his eyes were distant.
“Kinda weird, huh?” Nikki asked. “You being the target, me being the muscle. I get a catchy nickname, too?”
“Sure. How about …Captain Hooker?”
She stared at him in surprise, then laughed. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with Jack?”
“Sorry. I—just nerves, I guess. Trying to loosen up.”
“No, no, it was funny. Just not what I expect from you.”
“Maybe that’s my problem,” Jack said. “I keep trying to expect the unexpected.”
“You’re used to being in control. The capture, the interrogation—you hold all the cards. You can’t think like that now. On the street, it’s all about reflexes and instincts. React to what’s happening, not what you think should or could be. Listen to your gut.”
“I’ll try. You ready?”
“Let’s do it.”
There was something Stoltz hadn’t mentioned to the rest of The Pack.
He knew the folly of relying on others. The only thing people could be trusted to do was break the rules— it was just human nature. So despite the fact that he felt closer to The Pack than he ever had to his family, he’d kept certain preparations of his own secret.
He checked his watch—11:50. Five minutes ago he’d left a message on a voice-mail account The Pack had set up specifically for the occasion, revealing the plate number of the truck and which lot it was parked in.
Once he got there, though, the Closer was in for a surprise….
Jack wheeled the garbage bin down the ramp of the loading dock. He’d picked it up right where the map had said it would be, beside a booth selling garden gnomes. People had been using it—it was half-filled with empty soda cans and crumpled sales brochures— but nobody said a word when he took it away.
Jack himself was wearing a pair of dirty orange coveralls, work boots and a baseball cap. He’d used Nikki’s cell phone to call the number he was supposed to, and now he knew where the truck was: in the northwest corner of the parking lot on the south side of the building.
There it was, parked between a hedge and another truck. Jack looked around carefully; no one under the truck or in the cab. A chrome combination lock secured the rear door, just as it was supposed to. A sliding ramp was built into the base of the truck, and Jack pulled it out before he undid the lock.
The door ratcheted upward noisily when Jack yanked on it. He could only see half the interior—a blue tarp hung from the ceiling midway down the box.
He wheeled the garbage bin around and started pushing it up the ramp.
Sweat oozed down Jack’s neck. Any second now, bullets would come ripping through that tarp….
He reached the top of the ramp. Parked the bin against the wall. Drew the gun from the pocket of his coveralls.
Slowly, he reached forward and grabbed the edge of the tarp. He pulled it aside.
Two garbage bins identical to his were roped against the wall.
He lifted the lid of the first.
Stoltz had read about infrared imaging systems and high-tech devices that let you see right through walls—and who knew what the Closer had at his disposal? The mannequin he’d put inside the garbage bins may not have been very flexible—the knees didn’t even bend—but the hooded jumpsuit he’d dressed it in, made out of two electric blankets, would ensure it had the right silhouette and heat signature.
