The Closer (25 page)
Authors: Donn Cortez
He walked past an Ethiopian restaurant, a South American bookstore, an Italian deli with giant jars of olives and loops of sausage in the window. Lots of different cultures on the Drive. A skatepunk with a stubbly head, studded leather jacket and baggy pants ratcheted past him on his board, lit cigarette in his mouth and a pit-bull loping beside him. Jack wondered if either of them hated baby boomers.
The stairwell of his apartment building smelled like the ghosts of smoked joints and fried onions, but Jack didn’t mind; it was better than Pine-Sol and bleach. He could hear televisions and radios murmuring faintly behind closed doors as he climbed the stairs.
His own place was small, but it looked out over the Drive itself. He tossed his jacket on the worn couch, the only piece of furniture other than the foam pad he slept on in the bedroom, and stood by the window looking out for a minute.
Then he went to the stack of boxes along one wall, and started unpacking computer equipment.
When she got home, she started calling numbers on the list Richard had given her.
The first one was out of order. So was the second. The third had never heard of the name she asked for.
She tried the number for the agency itself, and got a funeral home. She crumpled up the list and threw it in the garbage.
Why? He hadn’t tried for a free fuck, and he must have known she’d check the numbers. Obviously, he hadn’t cared—which meant he’d already gotten what he wanted. But all she’d given him was a little history—places she’d been over the last two years.
Places that she’d been with Jack.
Once again, the Stalking Ground was online.
There were no new messages, of course. The Patron was the only member of The Pack left alive, and he couldn’t contact the site unless it was connected. Now that it was, the site itself would automatically email the members and advise them of its new location.
Jack thought about sending the Patron a message. Just to see if there was a response—maybe he’d been wrong, maybe the Gourmet and the Patron had been one and the same.
While he was thinking about it, a message arrived.
Apparently, the Patron had been thinking about him, too.
PATRON: Hello, Closer. Congratulations on taking out the Gourmet.
CLOSER: What color is the sky?
PATRON: Ah. Very clever. Want to make sure you’re not being taunted by an electronic ghost, hmm?
The sky is as blue as the depths of your soul. Satisfied? Or would you like me to talk about my mother?
CLOSER: It’s just you and me now. No more distractions, no more posing. I caught the other members of The Pack. I killed them. And I’m going to do the same to you.
PATRON: I believe you may. But let’s not get rid of the Stalking Ground just yet; it does provide us with a handy forum to explore our views, and there’s still a lot we have to discuss.
CLOSER: If you think you can track me through the site, you’re wrong. The Gourmet came close, but I learn from my mistakes.
PATRON: I don’t. I simply don’t make them.
CLOSER: Don’t you? I know you, now. I know who you target, I know what you’re trying to accomplish, I know you like to strike around holidays. All your killings involve elaborate scenarios—and the more details there are, the more that can go wrong.
I only have one thing to do—catch you.
PATRON: Don’t worry. You’ll soon have plenty of other things to think about. Pleasant dreams.
The Patron logged off.
Jack stared at the screen for a while. Then he went to bed.
He was awakened the next morning by a knock on his door.
He went from a muzzy, half-asleep state to wide, panicked alertness. He scrambled up from his foam mattress, dug into a half-opened box and came up with a pistol. Staying in the bedroom, he called out, “Who’s there?”
“Federal Express.”
“Right,” he muttered. Who even knew where he was staying? “Who’s it from?” he called out.
“Can you open the door, sir?” The voice sounded young, male, bored. Of course.
“Tell me who the fucking package is from!” he yelled.
“Okay, okay…it says, ‘Charlie Holloway.’”
Suddenly feeling like an idiot, Jack stuck the gun back in the box and padded to the front door in his boxers. Peering through the peephole, he saw a twenty-something male in a Fed-Ex uniform, holding a box and an electronic clipboard. Jack opened the door.
“Jack Salter? Sign here.”
“Sure. Uh—sorry about that.”
“No problem.” The delivery guy gave him the box, took back his clipboard and left without another word.
Jack closed the door. “Charlie, I could kill you,” he muttered, then grinned despite himself. He put the box down on the kitchen counter, then rummaged around until he found a knife. He slit open the box and opened it.
The first thing he saw was a plain sheet of white paper. He picked it up, unfolded it.
It read:
A little something from a Close Friend.
There was no signature.
He reached in, pulled out a smaller box. It was rectangular, wrapped in brightly-colored paper with little spaceships and a sprinkling of stars on it. It looked strangely familiar.
There was a tag on it, a tag with a little drawing of a reindeer on it. The tag read: To Sam, From Santa. It was in Jack’s own handwriting.
The box started shaking. No, it wasn’t the box, it was his hands. And those weren’t stars at all; they were spatters….
The last time he’d seen this box was under his own Christmas tree, three years ago.
The Patron knew Jack was the Closer.
The Patron was Charlie Holloway.
INTERLUDE
Dear Electra:
I feel terrible. And the reason I feel terrible is awfully complicated, so be patient and I’ll explain.
Uncle Rick came over for supper. I could tell right away that something wasn’t right—he gets this look in his eyes when he’s upset, and it’s there even if he’s smiling and laughing and pretending everything’s fine. So after we’d eaten and Mom and Dad were in the other room, I asked him point-blank what was wrong. I know it was nosy, but that’s just the way I am. Here’s a condensed version of the conversation that followed:
Me: So, what’s wrong?
Uncle Rick: What? Wrong? Don’t be silly. Ha, Ha. How’s school?
Me: Fine. So—what’s wrong?
Uncle Rick: Nothing, nothing, couldn’t be happier. Ha ha ha. How’s the dog?
Me: Fine. Sooooo… what’s wrong?
Uncle Rick: Not a thing and besides you wouldn’t care anyway. Ha.
Me: Uncle Rick. WHAT. IS. WRONG.
Uncle Rick: My girlfriend dumped me. Wah!
Okay, okay, he didn’t cry. But Electra …he looked so
hurt.
Like Rufus when I tell him he’s bad. Except Uncle Rick wasn’t bad, his girlfriend was. I mean, how could she not see how great he is? She must be a complete moron, and I said so. I don’t think it helped.
And I felt terrible for Uncle Rick, I really did. But…I was also kinda glad. And being glad about him being sad made me feel terrible all over again, in a different way.
I wish I could make him feel better. I wish Uncle Rick and I could be together.
But that’s not ever going to happen, Electra. He’s just my Uncle Rick, and anything else just wouldn’t work. I’m not crazy (even though I talk to you like you were real); I know it would be wrong and weird and illegal. I’m sure it would creep him out if he ever found out how I feel—if the situation was the other way around, it would creep
me
out. “What’s that, my young nephew Rick? You want to jump Aunt Fiona’s bones? That’s just
grand.
Shall I call the police now, or wait until afterward?”
Yup. Definitely creepy.
But I
do
love him. In a nonhormonal way, I mean. I want him to be happy.
When I told him that—the happy part, I mean—he just shrugged and said, “At least the experience will inform my art.” I thought that was a strange way to put it: informing your art. Like you go through something horrible and painful, and then a statue walks up and hands you a questionnaire to fill out.
YOU DON’T NEED A STATUE, FIONA. YOU HAVE ME.
That’s right, I do. Thank you, Electra.
And good night.
The voice on the other end of the line sounded confused but sincere. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jack,” Charlie said. “I didn’t send you any package.”
Jack held the phone in one hand, the Christmas present in the other. He put the present down, picked up the Fed-Ex package and examined the shipping label. His address was printed in block letters, done with a felt-tip marker. Nothing like Charlie’s handwriting—nothing like anyone’s in particular.
“Sorry,” Jack said. His head was pounding from the wine he’d drunk the night before. “I think someone’s playing a joke on me. Never mind.”
“So—what’d they send you? Dog poop? Gay porn?”
“If I told you,” Jack said, “I’d be delivering the punchline.”
“Well, then
don’t
tell me, the joke’ll be on them, right?”
“Right,” Jack said. “I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up.
He sat down and stared at the brightly wrapped box. It seemed unreal, as if it had suddenly dropped in from another dimension. It had a horrific kind of gravity, drawing his eye to it no matter where in the room he was.
He forced himself to think.
He knows I’m the Closer. He knows who my agent is, where I’m living. Of course he does—he killed my family, he was in my house, he knows all kinds of things about me. He even alluded to me when I was posing as Deathkiss—I was the one with “the greatest potential.” The one he still had high hopes for…
Or maybe the Patron was simply making an educated guess. Gambling that Jack and the Closer were one and the same, hoping that the package would make him do something crazy.
Like killing Charlie.
He thought for a long time about what to do next, and then he logged on to the Stalking Ground.
A message was waiting.
Patron: Dear Jack—by now you’ll have received my little gift. Not much, really, but it’s the thought that counts. I was hoping to keep it as a souvenir—you know how we collectors are—but I really think you should have it. If the wrapping looks familiar, it’s because I believe in recycling; the original package contained a small plastic “action figure” of some sort, but you’ll get a much bigger kick out of its current contents.
Oh, and now that we’re on a first-name basis, please—call me Pat.
Jack looked up from the keyboard, over at the box. He swallowed. Somehow, he hadn’t considered that there might be something else in the box. Something other than the brightly colored toy he’d bought for his son.
It didn’t matter. It was just more mind games, more distraction. He didn’t have time for that now. He had to focus.
He had to be the Closer.
CLOSER: I think you’re slipping, Patron. Whatever package you’re talking about didn’t reach me, nor is my name Jack. You obviously have no idea who or where I am. That’s good.
A reply came back almost immediately.
Patron: My apologies for any confusion. Identity is such a tricky thing over the net, isn’t it? As is truth. Anyone can claim—or deny—anything. I suppose there’s only one way to truly be sure.
I’ll just have to kill Jack.
CLOSER: I doubt that. It doesn’t fit your profile. You won’t kill out of simple expediency.
PATRON: Ah, but necessity
is
the mother of invention—don’t forget, all the members of The Pack had to kill a prostitute in the first place, even yours truly. She was a lovely little Asian thing, Vietnamese I believe—I was most grateful to Djinn-X for his discerning taste, even though the kill itself wasn’t terribly exceptional. Still, one does what one has to….
Not that it matters in this case—dear Jack is an artist, which places him squarely in my purview. Normally I wouldn’t dream of ending the career of such a promising candidate, but Jack has been something of a disappointment, so far. Hasn’t produced anything in ages. I’d almost forgotten about him….
CLOSER: Perhaps you’re going after him because you’re afraid of going after me.
PATRON: Are you offering me a choice? Because I’ll gladly switch targets.
CLOSER: You know I can’t do that.
PATRON: And after I kill Jack, I’ll know even more.
The first thing Jack did was close the curtains.
And then he sat and stared at the present. At the past. And tried to think about the future.
Would the Patron try to kill him? He obviously knew where Jack was staying, might even be watching him right now. Jack could simply leave town—but that would tell the Patron he’d been right.
Did it matter?
Anonymity was the factor that leveled the playing field. Being identified meant becoming a target. But what was identity, anyway: a name, an address, a social circle? Each one was a ring around a bull’s eye, a boundary defining that person in the center. The more rings you could get rid of, the harder you were to pin down.
Right now, Jack Salter was little more than a convenient label. No family, no partner, no permanent residence, no job. Who cared if the Patron knew his name? There was nothing in his life he couldn’t walk away from in the next hour without ever looking back.
Except, maybe, what was inside that present.
He picked it up at last and began to open it. He peeled the taped paper away from itself slowly, not out of caution but respect. He had an idea of what it must contain.
There were no wires, no explosives. There were two items, carefully wrapped in white tissue paper, dried and delicate but perfectly preserved. They looked like little bird’s claws, the fingers curled into tiny, wizened fists. He could see where Sam had bitten his nails.
Jack broke down and began to cry, holding his son’s hands in his.
It didn’t take long to pack. Jack saved the computer equipment for last, and checked the Stalking Ground a last time. As he expected, a message was waiting—but it was addressed to Djinn-X.
And it wasn’t from the Patron.
Dear Djinn-X:
I want to join your group. I undrstand you dont want any wannabes and are being carefl about the law.
I am not a cop.
I have killed three people so far, all bitches. I can proove this. I have done all your tests and ansered all your questions. I beleave the Pack is real and I want In. Let me know what you want me to do and I will do it.
Red Ed
PS please forgive the bad spelling I am not dum but I have trouble with words.
Jack frowned. A newcomer? He supposed it was possible; the test sites that Djinn-X had set up were probably still active, still attracting the same mix of freaks and law enforcement. Red Ed could be either. He could even be the Patron in another guise.
Or he could be for real.
He typed out a reply, telling Red Ed he would be in touch but was in the process of moving the Stalking Ground. He couldn’t ignore another killer—he just couldn’t. He wondered how old the “bitches” had been.
When he was done, he disconnected all the equipment and packed it up, then took one last look around the apartment. He hadn’t been there long enough for it to feel like home, but it was the first place he’d lived in for any length of time that didn’t have a blacked-out room in its basement. Jack took a deep breath through his nose, smelled just the faintest whiff of curry from one of his neighbors. A sad smile crossed his face.
The Closer started moving things down to his van.
Jack was very, very careful.
He checked the van for bugs. He took the freeway out of Vancouver and made sure he wasn’t followed. He found a run-down little place in Surrey and rented it, made arrangements for utilities, and paid a visit to the local hardware store. It was slightly more difficult without Nikki to provide that extra buffer between himself and the rest of the world, but he managed. It wasn’t all that hard to travel through the modern world like a phantom, not as long as people still took cash. Money that folded had a short memory.
And then he shut out his surroundings. Shut out sounds, smells, memories, anything but the screen in front of him. It was time to go back to work.
He looked through Djinn-X’s files on recruiting, studied his notes on past applicants and reasons they didn’t make the cut. The final initiation had only been offered to a few, and Djinn-X had exhaustively analyzed those that hadn’t passed, looking for hidden clues that might have revealed their insincerity beforehand.
What it always came down to was evidence. The test that Djinn-X had come up with was simple and foolproof… and Jack couldn’t use it. He would have to devise something else.
DJINN-X: Tell me about your first kill.
RED ED: It was a hitchhiker. I picked her up on the hiway outside of town on a friday night and I was already Pissed off. My boss hates me and I hate her but I cant afford to quit. This woman was blond like my boss and I was thinking about how much I hate all those Bitches so after driving for a while I stopped and pretended somthing was wrong with the car. I asked her to help when I was looking under the hood and when she did I slammed the hood shut on her head. She started Screaming and it sounded all weerd and echoed under the hood. She couldnt get out and her one arm was trapped but she was kicking like crazy. I couldn’t let go of the hood or she would have got away so I stabbed her with a screwdriver I had with me. I stabbed her in the side over and over and she took a long time to go. I put the body in my trunk and had to piss on the side of the car to wash off the blood so I wouldnt get pulld over.
DJINN-X: What did you do with the body?
RED ED: I buried it in a field. I cant say exacly where but I could show you.
DJINN-X: That’s not how we do things. It’s too dangerous to meet face-to-face. You’ll have to send me proof.
RED ED: Ok. What do you want?
DJINN-X: Pictures. And a hand from the corpse.
RED ED: I gess I can dig her up and do that. Ok. Just tell me where to send them.
DJINN-X: I’ll get back to you with a drop point.
Jack wasn’t sure what he should do. Red Ed sounded genuine… but that meant nothing. And anyone could dig up a grave, take a few pictures, chop a hand off a corpse. He needed to be sure.
When in doubt, turn to the experts. Jack went back to the Stalking Ground.
He reviewed firsthand accounts of execution and body disposal. He compiled a list of last words, read descriptions of the death rattle. He looked at downloaded photos and video. He studied methods, details, commonalities. He tried to put together, in his head, a comprehensive overview of the act of murder …then compared it to his own experience.
While he was still assimilating, the Patron contacted him.
PATRON: Hello, Jack. A shame you bolted like that—I wasn’t really going to kill you, you know. You’re my greatest success.
CLOSER: Why is that?
PATRON: Because of all of the artists I’ve influenced, you’re the only one to follow in my footsteps. You and I work in the same medium: pain.
CLOSER: To very different ends.
PATRON: I disagree. We both create suffering in order to reveal truth. Your technique is simply less refined than mine… you’re too focused on specifics, on control. My methods allow for free will. I let my subjects express themselves however they want. You’re a craftsman, but you could be so much more.
CLOSER: My goal is to end pain, not increase it. PATRON: I’m sure you believe that. But that’s simply not the way things work… everyone has a dark side, Jack. We keep it suppressed through a process of indoctrination, a set of civilized rules of behavior. Once you break those rules, that dark side begins to emerge—and the process always accelerates. A good profiler like yourself knows this; you’ve seen it time and time again. Do you think you’re somehow immune to the process? That your own taste for torture hasn’t been increasing? If you value honesty so much, be honest with yourself.
CLOSER: I will if you will.
PATRON: Certainly. What would you like to know? My name, address, a convenient time to stop by? CLOSER: Tell me about Sam.
PATRON: Jack. You surprise me. All that coyness and denial, gone in an instant. Not that I ever had any doubts.
CLOSER: The question proves my identity, and therefore my honesty. Answer it.
PATRON: Are you sure you want to venture into that territory, Jack? After all, you said your goal is to end pain, not increase it.
CLOSER: You don’t understand me or my goals. Nothing you can say about my son can hurt me or him any further.
PATRON: I know, I know—you simply want
closure.
But Jack—if I give you that, it destroys that wonderful creative tension that drives you. I’m sorry, but I just can’t do that. If you want answers, you’ll have to come and get them….
However, you were honest with me, so I’m going to be honest with you: I don’t intend to kill you, Jack.
I have much bigger plans.
There were other problems.
Djinn-X had a built-in system for mail drops; he could simply route them through the courier business he worked for and pretend to deliver them to a fictitious address. Jack would have to arrange an actual location—and even if he used the intercept method he’d suggested to the Gourmet, there was still a chance he could be set up.
He finally hit on something he thought might work. It would take some scouting and was a little risky, but he thought he could pull it off.
It would have been easier if Nikki were still around.
The restaurant was called Bon’s Off Broadway, a small but busy restaurant on Vancouver’s east side. The waitress behind the cash register looked up as the front door opened, and saw a delivery driver in a brown uniform, carrying a padded envelope under one arm.
“Delivery for—actually, it just says, ‘owner,’ ” the driver said.
“Just a second,” the waitress, Julia, said. “Bon?”
Bon, a Chinese man with a broad, smiling face, hurried up. “Yes? What’s going on?”
“Delivery,” Julia said. She was a tall brunette, with spiky black hair and a mermaid tattoo on her arm. “Expecting something?”
“No, I’m not expecting anything,” Bon said. “What is it?”
“Beats me,” the driver said. “Sign here and you can find out.”
