The Shadowkiller (19 page)

J
.D. Watts and Errol Rayburn met at the state penitentiary in Monroe. Both twenty-nine, J.D. was doing three years for burglary, Errol a five-spot for pushing smack. They were both paroled within two weeks of each other and the bond that had formed behind bars remained on the outside. Though forbidden by their parole conditions to associate with known felons, including each other, nevertheless they rented a ramshackle home near Duvall owned by J. D.'s ex. There they set up a respectable commercial venture in under-the-counter pharmaceuticals. Rock cocaine and pot were their profit lines, but homemade glass, a.k.a. crystal methamphetamine, was the blue chip foundation of their gross sales.

When a low-life scum named Leon Newburg took them for five hundred bucks, they were appropriately unhappy. Newburg was a biker who had been assigned a distributorship by J. D. and Errol and one day reported he'd had two lids of bud ripped off. When a drug associate told them Newburg had been bragging that he'd been the one doing the ripping off, J. D. and Errol took the news badly. That night they went to Newburg's home and, in a meth-inspired rage, beat the dogshit out of him.

When Newburg finally copped to the deceit, J. D. Watts went nuts and reached for the closest instrument with which to teach him a lesson. Unfortunately for Newburg, it was an Easton thirty-ounce aluminum bat. After J. D. had applied a few judicious blows to Newburg's head, Errol Rayburn set down his beer and put an end to the attack with the startling announcement,“Shit, J. D., you killed him.”

This news was particularly alarming as it implied a trip back to prison, this time for quite a longer hitch than the last, so they decided to conceal their crime. Loading their late employee into the trunk of Errol's Buick Skylark, they headed into the hills to find a final and very remote resting place for Mr. Leon Newburg.

Kris knew she was in for a battle with her news director. But balancing that out was her conviction that people loved serial killers, and by the eleven p.m. news, the story was their lead-in. Since first breaking the idea at noon that murder was afoot, Kris had added an angry Karen Roberts to the circus, along with the red-faced Snohomish County undersheriff furiously denying anyone had been murdered and claiming “there was absolutely no evidence of any such crimes.” She also had plenty of time in edit to make the brooding Carillo appear even worse with a voice-over that made him come across like his organization was so taciturn they might even have the Roswell wreckage locked away.

Her piece had been elevated to an “investigative report” since the six o'clock newscast, and Kris was asked to stay around to do a live wrap at the news desk with the eleven o'clock anchors. As soon as she finished, News Director Doug Gautier took her aside. He was fuming.

“If you're wrong about this, I don't care who's protecting you, I'll have your ass in a—”

She waved him off. “I'm not, Doug. People are being murdered. And we're the first to break the story.”

“Don't bullshit me. So far, all we really know is that these are random disappearances. There're practically a million people in Snohomish County and people go missing every day. I've had the head of every law enforcement agency involved in this calling me and screaming in my ear. They're calling press conferences to denounce us. Bottom line is if you're wrong, I take some heat but you're fucked. Understand?”

She nodded indifferently and Gautier stormed away. Kris got a delicious grin when she visualized the moment he'd been ordered to run with a story he didn't believe in. Gautier, a former star reporter turned distinguished anchor turned news director, took his job deadly seriously. He was always doing these stone-faced “editorial stand” pieces just before they went to the network news. She knew he fancied himself the
face
of the station, and as the senior newsman as well as news director he had a responsibility to keep the reporters in line to protect his own integrity. She also knew he was right about her. If this thing didn't take the right turn, and soon, she might have a problem.

Kris plopped down at her desk and acknowledged a few congrats from passing newsroomies until her phone rang. She figured it was Gautier wanting to yell some more.

“Yes,” she said flatly.

“So who did it? That's what I want to know.”

She was surprised but recovered quickly. “That's your job.”

Mac's voice sounded slightly amused, not enraged like she'd expected.

“Four murders?” he queried. “Wow. Helluva story. My partner's not too happy about how he came off. You blindsided him, then cut his legs off.”

She put her feet on her desk. “More like his balls. But they say life's hard, then you die.”

“So, you thought we were holding out?” he asked.

“I guess so. I went with the story, didn't I?”

Mac chuckled. “You sure did.”

“Where were you? I thought you two were twins.”

“Oh yeah, sorry I missed Carillo's roast but I was doing a little…investigation. But then you already know a crazed serial killer is out there, so why should I bother you with that? Right?”

She guessed he either knew something she didn't or was just psyching her out as revenge for his partner. Whichever it was, she didn't like it.

“Are you saying you know something you didn't tell me about?”

“Who? Me? No, not at all,” he said. “You've got it figured.” She could hear his smile.

“So what? You're saying these guys weren't murdered?”

“Well, at least the lawyers. They're back home, safe and suing people.”

The color drained from Kris's face. “What?”

“Just kidding. But you were supposed to say ‘Thank God,' not ‘Oh crap.'”

Mac could hear Kris exhale sharply and grinned that his arrow had found its mark.

“You're being a total jerk,” she said, trying hard not to give away her anger and relief. “No, make that an asshole. You're being a total asshole.”

“Funny, that's what Carillo said about you. But just a thought…What if next time I'm not making that up?”

“Why did you call? I was feeling pretty good until you called,” she said, hoping some sympathy might flush out whatever he knew.

Mac saw through her ruse but still wanted to help her. “I just called to say I saw your story and to say you've got guts. That's all.”

“Thanks so much. And tell your partner it was nothing personal.”

She didn't give a rat's ass about Carillo but wanted to give Mac the impression she cared.

“If you've got any leads, call me,” Mac said. “We'd really like to solve this case.”

“Funny,” she said, hanging up. She knew he was onto something. He wasn't bluffing, she was sure of it. He wasn't that kind of guy. For a split second she wished she was a normal woman with normal ideals because she'd be looking for a nice guy and he might be the one. But she wasn't, so he wasn't. She'd find out what he knew. Partly because it was good reporting, but mainly because her career hinged on it.

Mac pressed the mute button on his remote and the sound came back to the Channel 7 news just in time for him to hear that a storm was moving in. He exhaled long and hard, as his burden was now twofold: first, he was becoming attracted to the newly sworn enemy of the department, and worse, he had what he was beginning to believe was crucial evidence in a major case and his partner and bosses were not going to allow him to use it. He looked into his future and saw himself as a rent-a-cop, defending gated communities.
Damned if you do…

The six cylinders in Errol Rayburn's Buick Skylark wheezed their way up the dark and lonely mountain road. Trying to obey the laws for a change, given the body with the smashed head residing in the trunk, Errol carefully watched his speedometer, not that there were any cops out this far anyway. Since J. D. Watts had done some hunting in the area, he was assigned the job of navigating.

“Turn up here,” said J. D., indicating a small side road ahead. The Skylark wheeled around the turn and continued to ascend, this time leaving the broken asphalt for hard-packed dirt. After a few miles and a gain in altitude of a thousand feet or so, the men began looking for a place to pull over to the side of the narrow road. Another mile passed through the corridor of trees and a cutaway in the roadbed presented itself. Errol wheeled them to a stop and left the lights on to provide some illumination against the abject blackness.

J. D. pulled his ropy six-three frame out and lit a cigarette. Errol walked to the trunk.

“Gotta shovel?” asked J. D.

“The fuck I'd have a shovel for?” said an angry Errol, still furious that his hothead partner had offed a guy over two lids of weed. He opened the trunk and began hauling out the corpse.

“Hey,” said J. D., “why don't we just drop 'em over the side o' the road? It's steep and he'll roll down a ways and the animals'll eat 'im.”

“Animals'll eat 'im? Well, that's just fuckin' dandy!” raged Errol as he dropped the body to the dirt. “Got any other smart ideas, dumbshit? Man, we're gonna fry for this! You are just a fuckin' idiot.”

“Hey, the dude burned us. He got what was—”

“Shhhhh!” said Errol suddenly. “What was that?” he asked in a whisper.

“I didn't hear—”

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“Hey!” shouted Errol at the curtain of night around them. “Hey!”

As a YY chromosomal male, Errol was not afraid of what he had heard, just livid. How someone had gotten up here and was now walking around in the woods above them was not his problem to figure out. The
trespasser's
problem would be surviving when Errol Rayburn got his hands on him. J. D. killing that piece-of-shit thief Newburg was one thing, but someone trying to catch them in the act of disposing of a body—well, that really deserved the death penalty.

“Come out, you fuckin' coward!” he screamed at the woods above them. He turned to J. D., keeping his eyes on the trees. In a voice loud enough for the intruder to hear, Errol yelled,“J. D.? Get my piece outta the glove box.”

J. D. Watts dutifully walked to the passenger side and slid in.

“Hey you!” screamed Errol into the night. “I'm fuckin' talkin' to you!”

As J. D. opened the glove box and put his hand on the butt of the cheap .32 automatic, he heard a rapid series of sounds that were at first confusing, then disturbing, then downright terrifying. The first sound was Errol saying “Hey,” yet it wasn't in his commanding voice but more muted, as if surprised. Then J. D. heard and felt a thudding beat like a pile driver. But when Errol screamed like a girl, J. D. froze, then grabbed the gun and stepped out of the car.

For the first time in his life J. D. Watts couldn't believe his fucking eyes.

In the soft red glow of the taillights, his partner was in the grasp of a huge manlike thing, covered in hair and maybe twice as tall as poor Errol. As Errol Rayburn made a sick, strangled, gurgling sound, the giant man-thing leveled its gaze at J. D. For a moment or two J. D. was mesmerized by the glint of its eyes as it stared a hole right through him.

Snapping out of it, J. D. leaped into the car, knocking off the rearview mirror with his head as he scurried to climb over the console into the driver's seat. Thank God Errol left the keys in the ignition, and J. D. twisted them—he was still not fully in the seat—then slid in and floored the gas pedal. The tires spun and the doors closed with the momentum.

He accelerated to about fifty—which was twenty faster than prudent on that road—and continued uphill. He knew he was bottled in. Roads like this didn't make loops. Sooner or later he'd hit the end and have to turn around. J. D. Watts was so far beyond scared he'd actually pissed his pants. He'd been gang-raped in prison twice but that was nothing. This thing, well, it was right out of a goddamn horror movie. He decided then and there that if it was behind him and about to catch him, he'd drive off the road and kill himself before he'd meet the same end as Errol. And he knew Errol Rayburn had met his maker.

Abso-fucking-lutely.

Five and a half miles up he hit a turnaround. Dead end. Afraid to stop, he managed to turn the car without backing up and continued back down the road. If it tried to stop him, he'd plow right into it. He didn't know if the car could take it. That thing was even bigger than the grizzlies he and his uncle once hunted. He kept his foot on the gas and plummeted down the road, barely staying away from the deep ditch on one side and the drop-off on the other. When he thought he was at the point where they were attacked, he saw nothing. Then a hundred yards further he saw the actual turnout. Still nothing. He pressed a little harder on the gas, half expecting the thing to leap onto his hood. He steeled himself to the idea of suicide. After a mile had passed, he relaxed a little. Whatever it was had run off not only with Errol but with Leon Newburg's body too.

When he got home, rather than deal with how he would solve all his problems, like what happened to Errol and the blood in the trunk and the terrible thing he'd seen, J. D. Watts smoked a big joint, drank a third of a bottle of Black Jack, threw up, then collapsed into bed.