The Midtown Murderer (19 page)

Chapter 44

Trent
surveyed his apartment and for some reason it didn’t feel like his home. He didn’t like it, or Midtown, and he glanced with irritation at the bright city lights as he tried to wrestle down the anxiety of the last few days.

He made up his mind: he
was tired of the gangs, Jake and Elwood, McClure and the crooked cops, and the Midtown Murderer. They’d called him to do battle, and now he wanted to have the fight over with. He also knew his luck wouldn’t hold much longer; he had to strike quick.

Has to be Butler’s phone, he thought, studying the cheap,
throwaway phone Anima had given him. Must be how he contacts Triple and his gangsters. He keyed into the main menu and discovered that Butler had placed a call minutes before Jack was murdered. He pressed the view key and copied down the number.

He
thought of the gangster he had beat with a tire iron outside the courtroom and laughed. That act of violence was tame compared to what he was about to do. Replacing his rage with a bloodthirsty calm, he concocted a plan with a single-minded determination that he hadn’t felt in ages.

He dialed the number, feeling confident that if he could get Triple or one of his thugs out in the open, he would be one step closer to finding Chloe.

On the fourth ring a flat voice picked up. “Yeah?”

Trent shifted the cell phone from one ear to the other. “Roe here,” he whisper
ed. “Put Triple on the phone.”

“I think you got the wrong number
; I’m gonna hang up.”

“Wait. It’s me.
” The lies flowed easily now, practiced many times in his mind. “I found the cell phone; a hobo had it. Guy has pink hair and a beard and hangs out at the Piedmont Park gazebo. Triple needs to send someone into the park tomorrow morning and take him out.”

“Should be simple enough
; I’ll send two shooters just to make sure.”

“Tell Triple
I iced Priest and Palmer.”

“Hang on.
He’s here, but I have to go downstairs and find him.”

“I can’t wait. Tell
him Dana’s hurt bad and I gotta get rid of him.”

“
OK.”

A
n hour later, Trent studied his appearance in the bathroom mirror. The face of an executioner, he thought, wondering if he would get away with it.

He pulled on
his special tattered coat and toyed with the mannequin’s hand that hung from the sleeve. The fingers were crooked and gnarled, and a sewing needle held a cigarette in the V of the index and middle finger.

The fake hand would fool anyone who didn’t study it
too closely. The real surprise was behind the prop: a bone-handled knife was nestled in his palm, and the razor-sharp blade was stuck into the back of the prop.

He practiced his raspy voice and waved the knife handle. “Hey
, buddy, got a light?” That’s when he’d make his play. Triple’s thugs were in for a hell of a surprise.

Trent placed a
dark red, hardcover King James Bible with gold-page edges into his coat pocket. It was hollow, and inside was a Sig Sauer 9mm loaded with hollow points that he’d scored from a bartender downtown. Firing the gun in the park would mean something had gone drastically wrong, but he thought it was wise to have a contingency plan.

He
knew he wasn’t coming back, so he pocked the container of Percs. He was still sore from the beatings and the Percs had helped him sleep. And when this was all over, and if he was still alive, he might want to sleep for a very long time.

He
was hefting his Remington 12-gauge pump with a sawed-off barrel and wondering if he should take it with him when they came. Four of them, skilled enough to know not to drive their car too close to his office. But the driver had left his headlights on a second to long, enough time to alert Trent they were coming.

He
gauged the distance they had to walk and counted the seconds.

One . . . two . . . three . . .

The door blew inward at
four
, Trent unleashing a fusillade that was every bit the equal of his would-be killers. The roar from his shotgun drowned out the screams, and the room was instantly full of bitter smoke; chips of wood and plaster flew everywhere. Spent shell casings were raining down, and the coppery smell of blood mixed with the sulfur and cordite. It was over in ten seconds. He dropped the shotgun, dashed out the ruined door, and ran away from his office coughing and trailing a cloud of smoke. His head was still ringing from the concussion of the shots as the reality of the moment struck him. The fact that the Kings wouldn’t stop with these four thugs, especially since he had so easily executed them, was no less a reality than the fact that his time in Atlanta was over.

Chapter 45

Early
Christmas Eve morning,
Trent pushed a shopping cart through the Fourteenth Street entrance of Piedmont Park. The early-morning light had begun to nudge against the gradually dying night sky that was streaked with wispy strands of wind-torn clouds.

Hunched over and mumbling to himself, he
hoped he looked like a harmless old man taking a winter’s morning stroll as he worked his way around the loop road past the ballfields.

He stopped
occasionally and examined the park with a pair of small collapsible binoculars, adjusting the focal dial as he searched for park security or policemen. The eye-watering cold had kept the pedestrian traffic to a minimum.

The sidewalk branched off to his right and became a footbridge spann
ing Lake Clara Meer. Connecting the two halves of the bridge was a stone-work gazebo with polished granite pillars and a copper roof that rose sharp as a pencil.

Triple’s thugs were inside
, drinking beer from cans and belching after every swallow.

Cowboy and
a tattooed heavyweight, Trent thought, making one last sweep of the park. It was clear. Nothing for it, then, he thought, his heart beating in his chest like a fist pounding on a door as he pushed the cart onto the bridge.

Cowboy was
tall and thin; he wore jeans, an Oakland Raider’s jacket, and a Stetson. Heavyweight wore denim overalls; thick pelts of hair covered the crude dragon tattoos on his forearms.

Trent waved the fake hand. “Hey
, buddy, got a light?”

“
Depends,” heavyweight said, exposing his rotten teeth. “You seen a hobo with pink hair and a beard?”

Trent shuffled away from the cart and
raised the fake hand. “He’s on his way over from the restrooms.”

Cowboy nodded at
heavyweight. “Give the bum a light.”

When
heavyweight held out the lighter, Trent flicked his arm down. The prop clattered onto the stone floor, and he sprang, slashing the blade across the man’s neck. Bright red blood flooded from the gaping wound as the thug toppled to the floor.

Trent
leapt toward Cowboy who was tugging a pistol out of his waistband. Trent watched the gun coming up to point at him, then rammed the palm of his hand down, deflecting Cowboy’s wrist as the gun fired. The unsilenced shot cracked loudly across the park and the spent round ricocheted harmlessly off a metal bin.

Trent shattered Cowboy’s jaw with a vicious
elbow strike. He sank to the floor with his eyes closed. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth.

While the echo of the shot bounced inside
Trent’s brain he searched the bodies for an address book or cell phone. Not a fucking thing, he thought, flattening out the thug’s hand and amputating the ring finger. He felt the blade glide through the gristly sinew and crack the bone; then he pulled a diamond-studded ring off the bloody stub. This was rough stuff, but then these were rough people.

P
ocketing the finger and ring, Trent spotted a business card that had fallen from the thug’s pocket. He scooped it up then dashed across the bridge toward the Park Street entrance.

Out of his peripheral vision he spotted an attractive lady wearing blue jeans and a
leather coat. That look on her face: astonishment or terror? Trent chuckled. Obviously she had never seen a wino sprint like an Olympic track star.

Then he
noticed that she had wavy brown hair and was standing on crutches. Jesus H. Christ! Rikki Clay!

H
e heard angry growling and glanced to his right. A large German shepherd dog was charging away from him toward a wild Doberman who was bounding out of the hedge.

Trent didn’t make the connection that Rikki was holding a recoiling dog leash and
that the shepherd’s collar was attached to it by means of a taut nylon cord. He hit the rope and the bible went airborne as he toppled forward on his belly.

Trent
remained full-length on the asphalt. He was numb and his ears tingled; the blood had drained from his face. He could hear Rikki screaming from a long way off. He wanted to disappear. Become a nobody.

A tiny speech bubble was rising from deep in his mind. The words finally broke through the quicksand and came to his rescue: On your knees! His limbs responded and he felt himself rallying. Steady now. Untangle the rope. Why
did it go slack?

Rikki continued to scream.

“Aw shit,” Trent said, suddenly understanding it. He turned in time to glimpse the shepherd in midair, fangs bared, leaping at him.

Chapter 46

The beast pounced on Trent, its menacing muzzle aiming for his neck. Trent tried to shove the shepherd back, but its weight was more than he expected, and he fell
again to the ground. The forelegs of the powerful dog struck his chest as it tried to clamp its fangs into his throat.

Trent fought desperately to ward it off. With swift blows from his fists, he pounded at the dog’s head, but it paid no heed to his punches, instead tearing into his upper arm and sinking its fangs deeper and deeper, until blood oozed from the
bites.

The agonizing sounds caught the attention of the Doberman who leaped onto the back of the shepherd. Angry snarls erupted as the two dogs rolled over, engaged in a ferocious battle. Trent jumped to his feet and backed away from the cruel contest.

The Doberman was more agile than its opponent, tearing at its flesh, until a howl of pain, edged with profound terror broke from the shepherd.

Fearing for the shepherd’s life, Trent retrieved
his Sig Sauer and aimed carefully at the whirling, biting knot of bodies. The Doberman was mauling its enemy in a determined effort to kill when Trent squeezed the trigger.

There was a sharp crack, and the Doberman fell to the ground. Blood spurted from its torn throat and it writhed in its death throes. The shepherd stood on trembling legs and fled for its life.

Rikki screamed. Not a long scream, but sharp with shock.

Trent felt his torn biceps and said, “Sorry, but he was killing your dog.”

She said, “You just fucking shot him; you just . . . I mean, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. But that Doberman was like those
gangsters; they never stop attacking the innocents. And I don’t see the police defending anyone, so I’m doing it myself.”

Rikki’s mouth was a bit wider than usual, and she couldn’t take her eyes off the dead dog. Otherwise she seemed perfectly normal.
“Are you the Midtown Murderer?”

“Ye
s. Killing the gangsters is the only way to rid this city of fear and drugs.”

“So
you dish out justice as you see fit?” Her eyes locked on his.

“A personal vendetta is far superior to our criminal justice system,”
Trent said, clinging to his newfound fiction. “Besides, I’m making Atlanta safer.”

She tilted her head to one side in order to observe him from a better angle.
“Doesn’t that make you a monster as well; one that is every bit as evil as the gangsters?”

Good question. He didn’t have an answer.
“Take care of that guard dog,” he said, turning to run. “He’s better than a gun.”

“
Chief, come back!” Rikki screamed. “Police, police, someone call 911!”

Trent made a hot-rubber getaway in a stolen black Mercedes, knocking over a sawhorse with red stripes poised like a sentinel in the road.
Hell, it’s not my car, he thought, sparking a cigarette then tearing the wig off.

He found the
deserted dead-end road where the only sign of life were three half-finished spec homes that had stayed that way since the contractor went belly up when the housing market collapsed. He opened the double doors of the two-car garage and stashed the Mercedes inside. After the doors were closed, his blood pressure dropped and he slowly reentered the atmosphere.

I did it, he thought, running
his fingers across his scraped elbows and examining the two half-moon cavities of bloody flesh. In spite of two bad-ass dogs, I pulled it off.

Perhaps he should go to the Midtown Medical Clinic. Have an anti-tetanus shot. Maybe he should call Rikki and make a full confession. Then he thought about the electric chair. No confession.

He did call Atlanta’s senior crime reporter on Butler’s cell phone.

“Atlanta Constitution. Jones speaking.”

“I’m the Midtown Murderer; I just dusted two scumbag gangsters in Piedmont Park. I’m on a mission to wipe out as many thugs as I can.”

“Wait—”

Trent hung up. He felt calmly satisfied as he found a can of black spray paint, some masking tape, and old newspapers on a shelf. Then he taped the newspapers around the red moldings on his Ducati and sprayed them black. Should work, he thought, touching up a spot on the gas tank, then stopping to admire his handiwork. He gave the paint a few minutes to dry then pulled his helmet on and rolled his bike out of the garage.

H
e drove to the Lennox Mall and purchased a backpack, a few long-sleeve shirts, jeans, and toiletries to get him through the next two days. While he shopped, he promised himself to never again kill anyone in a public park.