Tracking Time (30 page)

W
hen the rain broke free of the clouds and sleeted down on him, David had a feeling of intense exhilaration, like being at camp all over again. At camp in the Berkshires, the weather was often hot and humid. The rain would threaten scheduled activities for hours or days, then suddenly make a grand entrance with thunder and lightning during intercamp sports competitions, canoeing. In the middle of hikes, on camping trips. The rain showed up like a good friend at a boring party, disrupting the carefully planned schedules, making people run in all directions, and providing exquisite relief in the chaos it brought.

Rain on his face, on his sweatshirt, soaking his shoes had never bothered David. It meant freedom, the end of responsibility. In the rain, no game could ever be lost, no bad feelings were ever aroused, no restraint was there to hamper and frustrate him. Rain scattered everything. Now, as always, the boom of the thunder cleared the park. And the light, sound, and water show had a special message for him. The rain had come to protect him and assure him that he was right to send Brandy home. He was right to do things his own way. He was wet through, and he was given the signal-not to go home, get dry, and forget about everything bad he could do; but rather to move forward, secure in the safety of his privacy.

He knew just what he was going to do. He planned the event as a special souvenir for himself that he could savor all the rest of his life. He would lift the gate free. He would go into the cave. The shrink would be there, still alive, but helpless. He would set up his flashlight in the cave so there would be just enough light to see what was going on. He would pretend the helpless man was his own shrink. Then he would lie on top of that girl. He and Brandy had seen her on Central Park West a couple of times before. Brandy dismissed her as an ugly girl, but she always said that about everybody. Really the girl was very pretty, tiny and thin. Last night, he'd enjoyed hurting her, and making her beg for mercy.

The problem then was it had all happened too fast. Brandy got too crazy when she was high. She made a mess of everything. You had to do this kind of thing slowly, deliberately, not in a panic. From now on he would do things right. He would set it up carefully, and the shrink would be there as his witness. This time he wouldn't have to be in a hurry, for no one could frighten or stop him from doing whatever he wanted. He could take his time and enjoy squeezing the breath out of her. And he would savor knowing that someone was watching as he did it.

As he hiked purposefully in the rain, he remembered that squashing was a recognized method of killing. In American History, he'd read about the witches of Salem. They used to kill them by drowning, but also by piling stones and rocks on them until they couldn't lift their chests to fill their lungs with air and were crushed to death in their own graves. A good way to get rid of anyone. He particularly liked the idea of crushing a very pretty girl to death with the weight of his own body. After the girl was dead, he would suffocate the shrink. That would be no effort at all. The man was small and practically dead already.

David had thought to bring along a really good knife. It was much better than Brandy's. It had a serrated edge for cleaning fish cartilage and could cut through anything. He liked the idea of his competence in this area. He had thought out many aspects of this mission, and it turned out that he was smart and knew what he was doing. When he was finished, he would end up with two fingers, and Brandy, who was way too impulsive, would have none.

Thunder struck as he pushed through the bushes. Then lightning. In the lightning he saw two rats huddled together outside the gate. He cursed and threw a rock at them. They ran away. He directed his flashlight where the rat had been and saw the foot sticking out. His heart sank. What fun would it be if the girl was already dead. He approached the gate swearing softly.

”
B
itch. Damn bitch.”

Maslow heard the voice. Then the crunch on gravel. A crack of thunder ruptured the sky. The noise covered his soft signal to Dylan. "Shhh." As if she could hear him and respond. There was nothing from her. A flashlight raked the area.

"Damn!" The voice was full of anger. Frightening.

Quickly, Maslow moved to the back of the cave before the light could catch him. His breathing sounded loud and ragged in his ears, but the boy didn't hear it.

"What the fuck!" He was talking to himself as he shone the strong beam on Dylan. She was out of it, didn't move. The light traveled along the ground.

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated him, just for a second, from behind. Maslow was horrified by the sight of the boy, dripping wet and at the peak of his health. The monster who had captured and beaten and terrorized him and Dylan looked huge, like an athlete, a football player or mountain climber. Even in the best condition, Maslow would not have been able to take him on. Now he was weak and dehydrated. His legs were shaky at best and his head ached from the blows he'd received. There was no way he could fight him now.

The light froze on the gate bottom. The boy's attention was drawn to Maslow's sneakers stuffed under the gate and the gap where a spoke had been.

"What the fuck!" he said again. He shone the light into the cave looking for Maslow and didn't locate him at first.

Maslow had thrown himself down in the corner, trying to look as if he had given up and died hours ago. The boy kept the light on him, shifting it back and forth from the shoeless feet to his hands buried in dirt, to his head. Maslow saw the light move and kept still. He had a wild hope that the boy would think Dylan was dead and he was dead, and that he would just go away.

But the boy was angered by what he saw and squatted down to assess the situation. He saw the sneakers and the digging that Maslow had done in his attempt to free Dylan's leg. Then he shone the light on Dylan more carefully this time and saw that her hands were no longer bound. He swore again.

Maslow held his breath as the boy poked Dylan's foot. She groaned. That galvanized him. The rock was still wedged against the gate. Now he picked it up and moved it. Then he wrenched the gate away. Dylan was not so out of it that she didn't feel the metal tearing her flesh. She screamed.

Maslow screamed, too, but the boy didn't hear him. Thunder was booming in the sky, and he had something else on his mind. He entered the cave, bending low to get inside. He shone the light on Maslow. Maslow held his breath and didn't move as the boy half-walked, half-crawled closer to get a better take on him. He poked Maslow with his foot, curiously, as if he were some thing, not a person. When Maslow didn't move, he kicked him in the ankle, then in the side. The breath was knocked out of him, and still he didn't move.

Maslow hurt in new places now, and he was enraged by the arrogance of the boy. The kid didn't see them as alive, as people. He didn't give a shit what he was doing to them. The arrogance and the raw sadism was more than Maslow could bear. If he had been strong enough to kill, he would kill now. But he was afraid to move, afraid of what the boy would do to him next.

Satisfied that he was no threat, the boy turned around and concentrated on Dylan. She was weeping feverishly, talking gibberish a few feet away. The boy was interested in her.

"Turn over," he said.

She didn't acknowledge him. This annoyed him. "I want you to turn over." She didn't comply, so he rolled her over himself.

Maslow thought he would lose his mind as he saw the boy talking to her, moving her arms and her legs to suit him.

"No, no." She muttered something inaudible.

The boy paid no attention to her. "Put your arms around me and hug me," he said.

He got down on his knees. He didn't like her position and moved her body around some more. Maslow couldn't figure out what he was doing.

"Hug me."

The boy lay down beside Dylan and started pulling at her clothes.

Maslow's heart pounded. No. No! He was choking on his indignation, his rage. The boy was pure evil. Never had he seen such evil. He could not lie there and watch when the boy pulled up Dylan's skirt and rolled on top of her. Maslow rose up out of the ground and struck out like a pit bull attacking a lion.

T
he orange glow of Zumech's SAR jumpsuit was way ahead of April as Peachy reversed direction again, and turned northwest back toward the lake. The air was heavy and the grass was wet. The temperature had dropped a few more degrees and the mist had turned into a fine drizzle. April was in pretty good shape, but hadn't hunted at night for a long time. Ten years ago this would have been nothing. Her first job had been in Bed Stuy, where she'd been on the streets day and night for eighteen difficult months in a really rough neighborhood where she'd felt small and defenseless, but had never bothered much about her physical comfort in the heat, wet, or paralyzing cold.

Now she was no longer used to running at night with her gun at her waist and her extra equipment slamming against her side with every step. She perspired in the vest and waterproof windbreaker, hampered by her own precautions. This night maneuver was coming to nothing, and she was sorry that she'd worn the vest. It was one of the new ones, cost nearly four hundred dollars, and fit her small frame nicely. It was supposed to breathe and be cooler than the older models but still be strong enough to stop any bullet out on the street. The first two claims were proving false. She hoped she'd never be a test for the third.

She was winded and discouraged as the dog changed direction yet again and the weather worsened. Mike was ahead of her, and it annoyed her that he was moving faster now than she was. Woody straggled along at her side. She felt horrible. She'd made another tactical error, trying this search at night. They were idiots, out in a storm with all four people they were looking for way off their radar screen, somewhere in the wind.

Trotting northwest after the dog, she was furious at herself. Suddenly Woody's light went off beside her. The fog closed in to a tighter circle. Lightning hit, cracking the sky. A boom of thunder followed.

"Shit." Woody stumbled and swore as the sky opened up and the rain hit with full fury, almost knocking them over with its force.

Monsoon time in Manhattan; it always happened in summer and early fall. Dry in her jacket, April's head and feet were drenched in seconds. Their search party was over. The park was empty, the sky as dark as deepest night. The dog was moving west.

Ahead, Mike stopped to zip his jacket. Then he moved on, his flashlight pointed down at the path. April kept a slower but steady pace, her eye on Peachy's orange necklace and John's jumpsuit just visible and still moving west, now at a run. April checked her watch. They'd been out an hour and forty-five minutes.

The dog and trainer raced on in the rain. And April ran after them, panting and exhausted. She was certain that the dog was heading back to the haven of the red Jeep Cherokee. They were rained out. No dog could smell through a hurricane. She was deeply disappointed at their failure, and she was also ashamed because she, too, yearned for rest and warmth and praise from her boyfriend. Peachy would get her treats whether she'd lost the scent or not. But April had messed up, she'd lost all three of her suspects and was in big trouble. Big.

In six minutes, they were back almost to where they'd started. But Peachy did not stop at the cars. April saw Peachy's orange necklace as she skirted the water's edge on the east side of the lake, traveling north along the patch of water until it became shallows and finally grass. Water poured down on their heads, muting John's excited cry of victory as Peachy hurled herself into the grass and disappeared.

I
n a crack of thunder, Maslow grabbed the boy by the back of his jacket and jerked him off Dylan. Unlike the boy and Dylan, he made no sound. All his effort went into the attack, and the boy was caught by surprise.

"Hey!" The boy pushed the sobbing girl from him like a rag doll that had gotten in his way. He tried to get up. As he unfolded his body, his forehead smacked a rock jutting from the ceiling.

"Shit." He swore and held his head. His foot knocked the flashlight over, dousing the meager light.

Dark took over the cave again but for the lightning outside, flashing like a strobe in a downtown club. Inside, it smelled of rain, sweat, blood, and fear. Maslow went for the boy's knees. Cursing some more, the boy fell hard, and the two grappled on the sharp, stony cave floor, struggling for advantage. Maslow tried to kick his opponent in the balls but couldn't get to him. So he pummeled with his fists as hard as he could from above, landing his blows on the boy's head and neck.

"Cut that out!" The boy's cry was high-pitched and carping. He was actually complaining.

Maslow tried to pin him, but the younger man outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. He flipped Maslow off him, and with one cuff, exploded Maslow's head with a thousand excruciating pin lights of pain. Maslow lay where he had fallen, stunned and immobilized.

Muttering angrily, the boy searched for the light, found it, and righted it so he could see again. Then he returned to the girl and his task of torturing her as if nothing had happened. First he didn't like the way she was lying and moved her around.

She was awake now, crying and begging him to stop. Then suddenly she became quiet. Her body twitched. Maslow could see convulsions in the light. The boy was pleased by these movements.

"Hug me," he said again.

Her head went back and forth.

He lowered his body on her, holding her down.

"No!" The cry was sharp.

He raised himself up a little, excited. "Put your arms around me. Come on."

She couldn't. He let himself fall down on her, crushing her. She bucked against him.

"This is a good feeling. Isn't this good?" he said.

After a few minutes, the pain eased a little in Maslow's head, and he started thinking again. He was a doctor, and a doctor's mind was a repository of secret knowledge. He clicked through it as if his brain were a computer. What part of the body could he attack with little effort? A hat pin behind the ear would kill him in a few seconds. In the Bellevue ER, he'd seen a rich eighty-two-year-old woman killed that way by her greedy son. But Maslow didn't have a hat pin, let alone a knife or a gun.

Maslow groaned involuntarily. David looked his way.

"Isn't this good?" he said. Below him, he was pulling up Dylan's short shirt.

Maslow's hand scrabbled around in the dirt, searching for the imaginary hat pin. He stopped when it connected with a metal object, the broken spoke he'd dropped when the boy appeared. He grasped the precious rusted iron in his hand and pulled himself up. The boy was now lost in himself and Dylan's agony.

Maslow crawled toward him. Using the spoke like a sword, he took wobbly aim, pointing straight at the carotid sinus. He swiped at the nape of the neck, striking the sharp edge into the soft skin so hard it sheared through the artery that fed the boy's brain. The boy howled with pain and grabbed his neck as the hot blood spouted out.

"Are you crazy?" he screamed. He was off Dylan again. In an angry frenzy at the attack, and apparently unaware of how badly he was hurt, the boy grabbed the weapon from Maslow's hand and lunged at him. In a second Maslow was covered with blood.