Paint It Black (24 page)

Blackness. She was floating up from the blackness to consciousness. She opened her eyes. The blackness was still there and she gave a terrified jerk. The thing . . . it was the thing covering her face. The cloth was still there. She could smell its musky odor, and when she drew in a breath, the soft fabric touched her lips.

She became aware of a sharp throbbing in her head, and a faint nausea boiling in her stomach. Her heart was pounding. But she had to stay calm.

Think, think! Calm down . . . use your head, use your senses.

She tried to move her arms. They were bound at the wrists, palms up. She could feel the hard wood of the chair. She strained to hear something or someone.

Nothing. Just water lapping and a soft groaning sound. Pilings? The air was still and smelled of mildew and fish. An old building of some kind near the docks? Was she still near the wharf? Something kicked on . . . like a motor, faint.

She tried to make herself calmer, tried to quiet the pounding of the blood in her ears so she could hear better. Nothing. No cars, no voices. Just the droning motor sound. It stopped and it was quiet again, except for the lapping water.

The floor creaked. She jumped.

Footsteps on wood. Coming closer.

Then it stopped. But she could hear someone moving.

Who was it? Gunther Mayo?

“Motherfucker . . .”

The voice made her jump. A man, it was a man.

“Damn it. Damn it.”

More footsteps. Pacing.

Louder this time. She tried to draw on what she knew, tried to remember what the books said. But nothing was coming. Just the feeling of panic gathering slowly in her gut. She gulped in several breaths of the fetid air to push the panic back down. The cloth billowed against her face. She uttered a small cry and suddenly the agitated pacing stopped. It was quiet. Water lapping. She held her breath.

“Where was he?” he asked.

The voice had changed. Calmer now, almost benign.

“Where was he?” Louder.

She didn't answer. Couldn't.

“You can talk to me, lady,” he said. “It's just you and me. You can talk now.”

“Take this off and I'll talk to you,” she whispered.

Footsteps moving away. “I can't do that,” he said.

It was quiet for a minute; then she heard a scraping sound, like he was dragging something. It stopped. The floor creaked.

“Listen to me,” he said.

She froze.

“Are you listening to me?”

She nodded quickly.

“I want you to tell them. You tell them that I had to do this. Everything is ruined now and this is the only way.”

What?

“I had to change my plan. You understand that, right?”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“He left me no choice,” he said.

It was very quiet. She strained her ears and she could hear him breathing. But she thought she heard someone else, too. A different rhythm to the breaths, slower, labored, congested.

Then—another sound. A thudding noise. What was it? It went on, turning wet, like the slapping of a soggy sponge against something. And groans, soft, agonizing.

She felt a sprinkle of water. No. Not water.

Blood.
Dear God.
He was hitting someone.

“Motherfucking piece of shit! Don't talk to me! Don't look at me!”

She bit her lip to keep from screaming.

Flesh against flesh. Bone cracking.

The groaning had stopped. Just grunts now, sharp grunts and panting.

Tears ran down her cheeks as she drew blood from her own lip.

She heard a hissing sound and smelled paint. The fumes filled the room.

“Get it right this time,” he said. “You fucking idiots. Get it right.”

Then it stopped.

She could hear his breath slowing. He let out a soft groan. Something fell against wood. She was shaking, her heart hammering, the wet cloth stuck to her face.

It was silent. She wasn't sure how long.

“Fuck . . .” he whispered. “No . . . no.”

Tears? Regret?

She heard footsteps and he came closer. “He made me do it!” he yelled. “Do you understand? He made me!”

Her brain was racing, trying to think of some way to calm him. What? What could work? Talk? Did he want to talk?

“Who?” she asked. “Who made you?”

He screamed at her. “Him!”

She drew back in the chair. Retreating footsteps. She heard the dragging sound again, a door opening, and felt a waft of fresh air. She pulled at her wrists, but they were bound tight.

Minutes passed. Or was it seconds? She couldn't tell anymore. But then, she heard the door close and the fresh air was gone. He was back.

He was pacing, muttering. She heard his footsteps come nearer.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I'm . . . I'm . . .” She could hear her voice. It sounded faint, childlike. “I'm an FBI agent.”

“Why were you there?”

There? Where . . . the pub?

“I was there to take a missing person's report from someone,” she said.

“I didn't—” He stopped. “Who's missing?”

Why was he asking this? He knew it was Tyrone Heller. He had just killed him.

“Who?” he demanded.

“A man named Tyrone Heller.”

“Ty Heller.” The voice grew louder, impatient. “
Ty
Heller! Who said he was missing?
Cap?
”

Cap? Captain Lynch? He knew about Lynch? Had he followed her there? She swallowed dryly. “Yes . . . yes, Lynch. He was worried about Heller. He thought he may be in danger.”

“What did he say about him?”

“Him?”

“Ty Heller. What did he
say
about him?”

She was quiet, her shallow breathing pulling the cloth against her skin. She didn't know how to answer this.

“Did he say he was smart? A good worker? What did he
say?”

Emily searched her memory for the right words. “He said he was a fine young man.”

“Did he say a black man?”

“Yes . . . yes . . . he did.”

It was quiet for several minutes. She could hear a boat horn, faintly. The quiet seemed to go on forever, but she knew it had to be only a minute or two.

“I have to finish it.”

His voice had gone flat.

The panic began to rise up inside her. She struggled against the ropes at her wrists, her breath coming faster now. She started to cry and screwed her eyes shut, concentrating on staying still and quiet so he wouldn't hear her. Her nose was running, the cloth over her face becoming wetter with each breath she took.

The footsteps came closer.

She let go. The sobs poured out. “Why? Why?” she pleaded. “I'm not like the others! I'm not black!”

“Do you think about it?”

“What?”

“What it's like to be black?” he shouted.

“No,” she sobbed.

Quick, heavy footsteps. The air stirred and she instinctively pulled back. “Have you ever fucked a black man?” he demanded.

Dear God . . .

“No . . .”

“You know what happens when you do?”

“No . . . no. Please . . .”

“You get freaks. Disgusting little monkeys that should've been scraped out of their mothers' wombs with a spoon.”

For a second, she heard nothing but the pounding of her pulse in her head.

Then, suddenly he was there and she jerked back. The air around her stirred with his breathing and she could smell him. Sweat and dead fish.

She screamed as she felt the blade on her skin.

He stared at their faces.

They stared back, silent images tacked on a bulletin board. Walter Tatum. Anthony Quick. Harold Childers. Roscoe Webb.

Louis walked slowly to the desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out the stack of photos Captain Lynch had given him. He rifled through them until he found a photo of Tyrone Heller. It was blurry, and he was standing behind Woody, but it was all he had.

He walked back to the board and tacked it next to Roscoe Webb's photo. Now there were eight. Emily Farentino didn't fit but she was still number nine.

Louis felt himself tighten but he refused to turn away from the board. His eyes moved over the maps, the color-coded cards, the pushpins and faces, his mind straining to find that one piece, that single strand, that might give them a break.

The door opened and Louis turned. Wainwright came in, his face drawn, his eyes vacant. No one had gotten much sleep in the last two days, but Wainwright looked like he had aged ten years overnight.

“I thought you were out there with the rest of them,” Wainwright said. He went to the coffee urn and poured a cup.

“I thought maybe I could do more here.” Louis hesitated. “Anything? Any word?”

Wainwright shook his head. He slumped into a chair at the table.

“We'll find her, Dan,” Louis said. He said it, but he wasn't sure he believed it himself.

Wainwright didn't look up. Louis couldn't stand seeing the guilt in Wainwright's eyes. He turned back to the board.

“Tyrone Heller doesn't fit,” Louis said quietly.

“What do you mean?” Wainwright asked.

“Farentino's profile. He doesn't fit.” Louis pointed to one of the cards. “Mayo knows this kid Heller. He worked with him on the same boat for almost a year. Farentino says this guy only kills strangers.”

“It's Tuesday,” Wainwright said flatly. “Gunther knew their routine, knew they went to dinner at the Dockside. He knew exactly where to find Heller.”

Louis concentrated again on the victims' photographs. They began to mutate into brown blurs. He rubbed his gritty eyes.

“Dan, you have the photos of the other cases?” Louis asked.

Wainwright sifted through a folder and handed the three photos to Louis. They were color copies of autopsy photos. Louis tacked them up next to the others, in the order of their abductions. He took a step back and looked at them.

Nothing. Nothing was coming.

His eyes moved from the first—Barnegat Light, New Jersey—to the last—Roscoe Webb. His eyes lingered on the blurry snapshot of Tyrone Heller. Heller was . . . young, younger than the others. That didn't fit either.

He went back to the New Jersey and Fort Lauderdale files, snatched them up, and returned to the board. He wrote the victims' ages on each photo. The man in New Jersey was fifty-five; the two in Fort Lauderdale were fifty and forty-eight. Tatum was forty-five, Quick was forty, Harry Childers was forty-eight, and Tyrone Heller was twenty-five.

They were getting younger.

But there was something else, something right there in front of him that he wasn't seeing.

Then, suddenly, he saw it.

The skin colors. The Barnegat Light victim's skin was ink black. The Coral Springs, Florida, man was maybe a shade lighter. The man from Lauderdale Lakes looked mahogany-toned. Tatum's skin was the color of maple syrup. Quick was cinnamon-skinned. Harold Childers was tawny. Roscoe Webb was a medium tan. And Heller . . .

Louis stared at Heller's picture. He was as light as he himself was.

“They're getting lighter,” Louis said quietly.

“What?” Wainwright said.

“The victims,” Louis said. “Their skin colors are getting lighter.”

Wainwright eyed the board over the rim of the cup. “So?”

“It means something.”

“What?”

Louis tried to get his brain in gear. He was tired; it was hard.

Wainwright came up behind him. “I don't see what it could mean,” he said, but he was studying the faces carefully.

“I think I do,” Louis said. “The killer is aware of skin color, of the importance that people put on shades of skin color. The lighter the skin, the more prized it is.”

Wainwright was looking at Louis now. But Louis was staring at the faces on the bulletin board.

“Black people with lighter skin get preferential treatment,” Louis said quietly. “The lighter the skin, the less threatening the person is to the white power structure.”

Louis paused, his eyes locking on Tyrone Heller's tawny skin. “We do it, too. To ourselves. No darker than a brown paper bag,” he said softly. “That's the ideal.”

Louis turned away from the bulletin board. He went to the table, dropping into a chair, rubbing his tired eyes.

“You think the killer picks these men based on the exact
shade
their skin is?” Wainwright asked.

“Yes. It's too big a coincidence.”

“But how many white men really notice shit like that?”

“I don't know. Maybe . . .” The thought was there, on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't make sense of it. “Maybe he's working toward someone who looks like the real object of his hatred.”

“A white man?”

Louis nodded.

“Then why involve the black guys at all? Why not just kill a white guy?” Wainwright said sharply. “Shit, this makes no sense. This guy is hung up on race one way or the other. It's what drives him.”

Louis turned, his own frustration bubbling over. “Then explain the faces getting lighter. I'm telling you he knows exactly who he wants and in what order.”

Wainwright leaned on his desk and drew in a deep breath. The room was quiet except for the occasional spatter of radio traffic.

Finally, Wainwright spoke. “So you think his last victim will be white?”

Louis nodded.

“I don't know, Louis. That sounds kind of farfetched.”

Louis looked at Wainwright tiredly. “Not if that white man is himself.”

Wainwright blinked. “Suicide?”

Louis didn't answer.

“But what if he's not on self-destruct?” Wainwright asked. “What if it's some other white person? What if it's Farentino?”

Louis stared at him. Jesus. He hadn't thought of that.

 

 

Sleep was impossible.

Around six, Louis took out a squad car and headed to the wharf. He saw other cruisers—Sereno, Lee County, Fort Myers, they were all out, searching. The radio traffic was muted. Too quiet.

He went across the bridge and turned down Estero Boulevard. The street was almost empty, the tourists still asleep, the honky-tonk neon silent. The radio traffic had deteriorated to the occasional unit just checking in. The stretches of silence had grown longer.

He pulled into a parking lot and got out of the car. He walked to the beach and stood gazing out at the dark expanse of sand and water. The sky was a murky gray, that soft blanket of half-light that covered the earth just before dawn.

Quiet. Just the sweet lap of the waves curling gently against the shore and stretching endlessly into the darkness.

He walked slowly across the sand, stopping at the water's edge.

He had grit behind his eyes, his neck and shoulder muscles throbbed. And his head . . . his head pounded, and he couldn't think, couldn't even move now, couldn't do anything that would make any difference.

His mind was gripped by images of what he might be doing to her. He couldn't erase them, couldn't change them.

It would almost be easier to be in her place, have some measure of control, no matter how small.

Oh Jesus, he hurt.

And he knew now what lay behind the emptiness in the eyes of June Childers, Anita Quick, and Roberta Tatum. He knew now what haunted Wainwright.

Dealing with what the evil leaves behind
.

He tightened, against the sense of impotency and the vivid images that had been building all night in his head. He felt pain, as if his gut had been taken and twisted into a knot. He sank to his knees in the sand.

He felt a coolness on his knees and opened his eyes to see that the waves had crawled to his knees.

The waves retreated and came again, and he watched their rhythm numbly, finding a strange comfort in it. For a long time he didn't move, lost in the cool, bleak grayness of the dawn.

From somewhere in the distance, he heard a voice. It was Wainwright. The radio in the cruiser. They were calling him.

He stood and trudged back to the car. He grabbed the portable and responded.

“Kincaid to Sereno One.”

Wainwright's voice sliced through the silence. “They found her, Louis. She's status four.”