There Will Be Killing (28 page)

The distant sound of a chopper coincided with the distinct revving of an outboard engine.

“Where the hell is he?” Gregg examined the ropes like they had come out of Houdini's magic box.

“Never mind that”—J.D. stated as he headed for the door— “we need to get to the beach, if it's not too late already.”

It was. On the beach they could see a Zodiac and there was Rick standing in the bow, blowing them a kiss goodbye as the boat gunned away onto a moonlit sea.

“That bastard!” Izzy started rummaging in his pockets. “I hit him with. . . ” He frowned. There were two prefilled injections in the medic bag he had grabbed when J.D. raced into the villa and said he would explain on the way to the mission. Izzy was terribly afraid he might have screwed up. “Well, where the hell can he go? He's a fugitive in a war zone in a foreign country.”

J.D. laughed dryly. “This guy? He can go anywhere and disappear, live in the jungle for weeks. He can get up to the border, contract out to a warlord and have a nice cushy job doing what he does best, killing people, by next week. Probably with a big pay raise. We have to get him now. Let's go.”

The chopper was getting closer as Rick sped further away.
Crystal Blue
came low, right over the water, and Izzy beat a path to the chopper when it touched down, propelled by his fear he might have used the less potent IM injection and if anyone else died by Rick's hand, it would be his fault.

“Hop in boys,” said the pilot in greeting. “We gotta stop meeting this way.”

J.D. issued orders to the pilot and in seconds
Crystal Blue
was lifting up, spinning, and they were flying over the water. This time there was no Jimmi Hendrix or “In-A-Gadda-Davida” blaring from the speakers, only their hot, single minded pursuit of the Zodiac.

They were lucky the moon was bright. Izzy could see the white spray from the outboard and the wake of the boat on the inky black water.

“Looks like he's heading for the river mouth just ahead,” J.D. shouted over the whirring blades. “Yeah, that's exactly what he's doing so he can beach the boat and disappear in the jungle. We have to tackle him on the boat before it's too late. If he gets on land, he'll be hoping we chase him so he can have some fun. Izzy, do you still have that knife I gave you on the way?”

Izzy nodded. The sheath on his leg with the blade felt awkward but comforting on his body as J.D. laid out the plan.

“Okay, when we're close enough we're all going to jump onto the craft. While I get him subdued, Gregg, you man the boat, and Izzy hit him again with the other needle. Got it?”

“Got it,” Izzy said, his jaw set while he double checked to make sure he had easy access to the syringe he probably should have delivered the first time. Any mistake that had been made was on him; he had to make this right. He didn't have the luxury of being afraid to jump out of the helicopter when J.D. gave the order.

“Now when I say ‘jump'—wait! Not yet!”

Too late Izzy was out of the chopper and landing awkwardly on the Zodiac, right next to Rick, who immediately pounced. He had a hand on Izzy's throat, and just as immediately sent a message overhead with a wave:
Jump and he dies.

Izzy could feel his eyes bulging behind his glasses, could see the chopper hovering while Gregg and J.D. hesitated. Then there was a jolt, like the boat had hit a submerged rock and Rick bounced off of him.

Izzy did not analyze. He acted on pure adrenaline and instinct and unsheathed the knife J.D. had given him, scrambled back to the other end, and madly started stabbing the inflated craft.

“You stupid fuck!” Rick screamed as the knife punctured the skin and Izzy kept stabbing and stabbing while the boat deflated.

They were close to shore and Rick jumped out while Gregg and J.D. leaped from the chopper, landing near the edge of the beach where Izzy scrambled out of the deflated Zodiac.

Rick was already running for the jungle.

“Don't lose sight of him!” J.D. yelled, going right after him, and Izzy knew if they lost this maniac any future blood spilled would be on his hands. He had to have used the wrong injection in the heat of the moment when there wasn't time to think, just act.

No time to think now, they were all on the ground running, trying to catch up to a physical force of nature. Gregg seemed to turn into a thoroughbred and sprinted past J.D., closing the gap on Rick, then flying through the air to make a pro ball tackle.

Rick spun around, kicked, and dropped Gregg with a blow that left him gasping at the jungle's edge. Rick stopped in his tracks. He grinned.

“Okay, great, we might as well have some fun now and finish off you clowns, and then I just may go back and have my way with the girls you all left behind.” He laughed jovially as Izzy caught up, gasping for breath. “Now who's first? Larry, Moe or Curly?”

“Try me,” said J.D. and walked straight into Rick's onslaught.

Izzy grasped the syringe and tried to track their movements, knowing if he got J.D. instead it was over for them all. He watched in the milky moonlight as the shadows of two figures whirled and spun in a choreographed like rhythm. Rick was still laughing, enjoying himself immensely, until his knife went flying out of his grip, his wrist was snapped, and he was dropped to his knees by a kind of martial arts blow to his chest even he must not have seen coming.

Izzy seized the moment.

Rick tried to get back up but fell on his back, further embedding the needle that Izzy had jabbed into his shoulder.

“Strike hard. Strike first. Isn't that right, Rick?” he asked.

Rick howled in frustration. But he couldn't move.

“Your muscles will not respond,” Izzy informed him. “It's a little like curare, Rick. The medication is paralyzing your system right now. You will soon even find it hard to breathe.”

“You fucking idiots,” Rick gasped. “They won't take me anywhere but somewhere they can use me.” He gasped again. “They can use me. But you? You're just a couple of shrinks who know too much. You're the expendables.” Another gasp. “Hit me with something else…to reverse this. Not too late. I can still. . .save you. From him.”

It was then that Izzy became aware of a creepy crawly feeling at the base of his neck, making his skin prickle, his hair stand on end. He looked at Gregg, kneeling beside him over Rick's fallen body, and in Gregg's eyes was a kind of primal fear that echoed Izzy's own. Like every snake in their minds had come alive.

Gregg and Izzy walked across the cat tracks toward the 99KO. It was growing dark and Kohn had called to tell them to get over to the unit ASAP.

“So where do you think J.D. really took Galt?” They had not seen either of them in the week since the mission massacre. Gregg touched his bandaged nose. It was healing up well and so was his broken cheekbone, which looked a lot better than the running length of stitches on Robert David's face. The plastic surgeon who repaired his fine nose anticipated excellent results even if Robert David now had a terrible tendency to snore. Loudly.

“Who knows beyond someplace the government can observe him while keeping the troops and everyone else a safe distance away.'” Izzy made J.D. quote marks that reminded Gregg of the Howdy Doody grin lines Izzy got whenever he was around Margie. “I guess we're supposed to feel special that everyone else thinks he got carted out in a body bag and we know better.”

“Yeah. I can't say I enjoyed lying to Robert David and Margie about that.”

“It's better they don't know. Kate and Shirley, too,” Izzy reminded him. “They have enough to deal with at the mission as it is.” He shook his head.

Gregg wondered if he would ever get his own head back on straight. He could have sworn J.D. was ready to shoot him and Izzy both, literally in the back, before they turned around. J.D. had hesitated, then smiled as he exchanged the pistol for a flare gun and laughed in a way that reminded Gregg a little too much of Rick: charming, sincere, infectious. So completely believable you had to think that you were the crazy one, not him, when he turned out to be an accomplished actor who delivered his lines with a good dose of the truth.

Upon entering the unit, K.O. practically knocked over a cart in her enthusiasm to greet them. Colonel Kohn didn't look so enthusiastic himself as he immediately gestured them over to a private corner.

“You're both wanted for a conference over at HQ.”

“What now?” Gregg asked. His stomach dropped.

Kohn signed wearily. “I'm not sure. Colonel Johnson is there with some of his superiors in the CO's office. They're waiting for the two of you. I called you here first to give you a heads up. If there's any trouble, I'm in your corner.”

Izzy and Gregg hurried to their summons, pausing only as they passed the Red Cross building where a line of soldiers were still waiting to use the phone.

“It will never be the same without Nikki.” Gregg tipped his head as they kept walking. “I hope to god they get who did this.”

“Maybe that's what this meeting is about. CID knows it wasn't J.D.”

Gregg had to admit J.D.'s decision to get arrested so Rick would think he was momentarily out of the picture was not a bad move. J.D. explained he had strong suspicions at that point about Rick, but it was mostly based on a private conversation with the Mnong Headman who had some misgivings about Rick he couldn't substantiate beyond “a bad feeling” and other circumstantial evidence—unfortunately, some of it tampered with—and J.D. thought the killer might be lured out if only given a small window of time to strike.

The problem was getting Kate out of there just in case, not to mention everyone else possibly being put in jeopardy. J.D. even had some suspicion that Rick may have murdered Nikki and was hastily working with Colonel Johnson on getting enough evidence to make an arrest at the mission, which would effectively take Rick away from the field on the pretext of another crime, even if further investigation proved he hadn't committed it. But at least it would temporarily keep him under lock and key while conclusively determining whether or not the highly decorated Captain Richard Galt was responsible for the murders of their men in the field. Further complicating the arrest of an extremely valuable Special Ops trainer was that if he was not the one doing the killing, then the field was exactly where they needed to keep him so he could help track down and eliminate the true culprit or culprits.

J.D. checked himself out of the slammer early when he made a connection between the matches from San Antonio and an MP who had come in from Fort Sam Houston, murdered just next door at Camp McDermott. This coincided with a little time off Rick decided to take right after they left the Highland's firebase morgue.

He should have used a different chopper. The pilot of
Crystal Blue
confirmed that he no sooner dropped them off than Rick radioed in a request for a pick up and drop off next door and it sort of irked the pilot he had to make two trips back to back that didn't include some action—and he wasn't talking about the kind of action that had Rick wearing a pair of Converse.

As Gregg and Izzy neared HQ, Gregg recalled, “The last time we were summoned over here Peck was responsible.”

“He sure seemed to get over Nikki quick. What I don't understand is why he gets to waltz around whistling like he's going on vacation and we get called into headquarters.”

“Guess we're about to find out. Wow, check out the car.”

A black Cadillac limousine with dark windows was parked in the shadows near the building, about where Derek had pushed past them before getting his M16 to blow the hell out of Top.

“I still need a haircut,” Gregg said thoughtfully. He ran a hand through his beachcomber blond hair as they entered HQ and approached Top's old desk. “Hey, Terry, how you doing?”

“242 and a wake-up,” Terry muttered. He was already out of his seat. “I'm to escort you to the conference room immediately. You'll notice a couple of Green Berets standing guard at the door.”

“Who's in there?” Izzy whispered.

Terry kept his own voice low. “Colonel Kellogg, Colonel Johnson, General Claymore from MACV headquarters in Saigon, and a very important looking gentleman in a suit who was not introduced to me.”

Terry escorted them past the Green Berets standing at attention in their nylon combat boots, and there was Colonel Kellogg looking as if he was screwed into his chair at one end of the conference table, with Colonel Johnson beside him. At the other end a much decorated General paced near a man of obvious stature who stood in the shadows of the room.

The General turned his gaze on Kellogg.

“You are excused now. Remember what I told you.”

Izzy watched Kellogg leave with his head down, looking at no one. The guards followed him out. General Claymore then deferred to the man in the suit, who stood in the furthest corner as if seeking privacy in the shadows.

His hair was thick and silvery. When he spoke his voice was high and a bit squeaky, which in no way matched his attire or his bearing as he flipped open an engraved pocket watch.

“Let's get to it, Glen.” The man in the suit tapped his foot.

Maybe it was because of all the combat boots Izzy was accustomed to seeing but he noticed the tapping foot was wearing really shiny shoes.

“Have a seat, Doctors,” the general instructed, indicating the chairs across from him in the glare of what looked and felt like interrogation lights. “Relax. This is just a briefing. According to J.D., you both deserve medals for what you've been through, but of course you won't get any because none of this ever happened. Now did it?”

For a moment, Izzy couldn't find his voice. He wasn't sure how they were supposed to relax when a very clear threat had been issued in the question that wasn't really a question but an order.

“No, sir,” Izzy answered.

“It never happened,” Gregg repeated.

“Good. Then we also understand each other that you never saw what I'm about to show you. Correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

He shoved a folder across the desk, directly in front of them. “Open it.”

Izzy wasn't sure what he or Gregg were expecting but there was a picture of Rick Galt attached to some official looking military papers, then beneath those were a stack of typed pages that looked like journal entries. He was drawn to pull those out while Gregg studied the remainder of the file.

“The guy in the picture was here in 64. Jerry Prince was his name. Same deal, though. Started doing his own guys. No proof but clearly a nut job. They sent him back home to the Madigan General Psych Unit, the locked ward, then to the special unit for the criminally insane where he suddenly disappeared with his records in December of 66.”

“When you say disappeared, do you mean in the conventional sense?” asked Izzy, eyeing the top page that read: KILLERS.

“Walked away. Do not ask how. ‘His' body was found later, horribly burned, beyond recognition—but, with some Jerry Prince ID conveniently left intact. We just recently tracked it down with the picture.”

“And when did Rick Galt arrive?” asked Gregg.

“June, 67.”

“His file here says ROTC.”

Colonel Johnson jumped in. “Yeah, well, apparently the real guy has been missing since that winter. Went on a ski trip. His parents thought he took off to Canada to get out of Nam after he graduated from Washington State. Instead he moved up quickly in the ranks. Great soldier, Richard Galt.”

“You mean Prince actually returned here after escaping the psych unit?” Izzy couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice. Or, his eyes from racing over the headers of the typed pages he flipped through:

DARKNESS

KITTENS

CLEANSING

CUT

And then he came to the last one. It read: NOTES FROM HELL

“As Rick Galt, he did well. Highly decorated. Volunteers for all the shit. Teaches hand to hand. Highly proficient and skilled. Dedicated and deadly.” Johnson snorted. “Should be on a poster.”

“If you think about it, a war is a perfect place for a psychopathic killer.” Gregg, pointing out what had become all too obvious.

Izzy moved the journal pages closer, so Gregg could get a look at them too.

“Absofuckinglutely,” Johnson agreed. “We could use more of them if there was a way to keep them from crossing the wrong line.”

“True.” For the first time the shiny shoes spoke to Izzy and Gregg. “So what can you tell us, doctors, to help us better understand how a mind like this works? The information may be useful.”

Gregg looked up at Izzy and shook his head, then continued to turn from one trauma and horror filled page to the next. This firsthand account of the ongoing brutalization and twisting of a child's psyche and humanity, the systematic eroding of any sense of empathy or compassion, was so disturbing that Izzy was relieved to transfer his attention to clinical theory.

“It's a mental illness,” he explained. “The obsession, the fantasy, the victim, the shock, the fear, the thrill he gets from doing it in his own private, precise, and unique way. Close, from behind, feeling it. Nothing else provides the release. Only this serves him and he only serves it.”

“What else?”

“He's a hunter. He loves the hunt and he loves the kill. It's actually what gets him off. The adrenaline rush is like a big drug hit.” Izzy shivered, remembering the look of ecstasy on Rick's face as he impaled Professor Nguyen.

“But why our own guys?” General Claymore persisted.

“He wants to hunt the best. In a sick, twisted way he's like a bull fighter who raises and trains the best bulls in the world to be killers and then he kills them. It makes him the best. The very best killer in the world. A monster. He really is the Boogeyman.”

Gregg held up a hand. “Just give me a minute here.”

They all went quiet; even the shiny shoes stopped his toe tapping.

When Gregg laid down the entries, he asked, “How did you get these?”

Claymore answered. “He had some secret notes hidden away that were found after his escape, but most came out as part of his therapy at Madigan and one of the shrinks was studying his writings when the medical records disappeared. Why?”

“Because if you want to have a step-by-step construction plan on how to make a psychopath, these entries of his provide a nice blueprint for creating one: The isolation, the abandonment, the trauma of killing at a young age, a child inured to emotions against the unthinkable, then getting twisted to a point where it feels good to kill, to feel the ultimate power after you've been so powerless to defend yourself against others, against the system.”

“But not everyone would turn out the same way under duplicate circumstances,” Shiny shoes noted.

“Of course not. But don't ever doubt that everyone has a dark side of the brain and that's where we can all
feel some excitement or pleasure in pain and killing. That's our big cultural no-no, to admit that violence and even killing is exciting. But just go to a major prize fight in Vegas. Listen to the cheers when the blood flies. And, the more brutal it becomes, the more frenzied the audience gets. Blood lust. It's in all of us. And it shames us. Well,” Gregg amended, “most of us.”

“Absolutely,” Izzy concurred. “It wasn't that long ago that burning a witch at the stake or a public beheading was cause for a festival. Free entertainment. Come one, come all, bring the whole family and have a picnic. The fact simply is that civilization and civility is a very lovely and precious, but very thin veneer, over a twisting, brutal savagery within us all.”

“And Richard Galt—or Jerry Prince—has embraced his own inner dark side. Horrifically so. The result?” Gregg tapped the typed pages. “He is a psychopath's psychopath.”

A clock ticked in the background. Long moments passed before General Claymore suddenly reached over to reclaim the file. Gregg laid a hand on the entries.

“You know, I knew this guy. I even thought he was a friend. Somehow I missed it all, completely, and I would like to understand how I got so blindsided. Is there any chance I could have a Xerox copy of these to study? Or, even just the last one since I didn't read it yet?”

The general looked at the mysterious shiny shoe guy. He simply opened his watch again and said, “The request will be considered. Doctors? Until we meet again. Glen, you know what to do.”