Blood of Others (30 page)

Vryke bought
a full-fare ticket at Five Star
Skyways’ counter at Seattle International. In the pre-boarding area he surveyed
the groggy passengers with their takeout coffees, water bottles, newspapers.
There
is always one who leaves their ticket in a vulnerable position.

He found him.

Cowboy hat, jeans, boots, large
belt buckle, a trucker type. Arms folded. Eyes closed. On the adjacent seat,
his ticket was peeking from a small bag with a rolled up
USA Today.
Vryke plopped next to him, sending it all spilling to the floor.

“Sorry, friend. I’ll get it.”

Vryke clumsily gathered the man’s
belongings, including his ticket to Baltimore which Vryke quickly switched with
Foster Dean’s ticket, slipping it unnoticed into the stranger’s ticket folder.
The cowboy nodded then yawned.
Perfect.
Five Star’s computers would
confirm Foster Dean was on the Baltimore-bound plane, Vryke thought later
during the boarding call as he casually walked in the opposite direction of the
departure gate.

He entered a restroom to ditch
Foster Dean’s credit card in an empty stall, pausing when he happened upon the
words:
God’s plan for Salvation,
on a soaked pamphlet draped over rim of
a toilet.
You do work in mysterious ways, don’t you?

Vryke appraised his reflection in
the mirror; dark red hair, red moustache, thinned eyebrows, different eye color
and glasses. Not bad, he thought before heading for Boeing Field, and Golden
Airstream VIP Charters. The company offered ‘One-hour Readiness On Demand’ and
Vryke chartered a small jet for Neil Chattersly, vice-president of
CiceroComputrex. It cost a few thousand dollars on the company card.

Emergency business.

He buckled in to one of the
aircraft’s luxurious leather-bound chairs. A single attendant offered him a
pastry and coffee. The pilot and co-pilot were friendly and professional. “Sit
back and relax, Mr. Chattersly. We’ll have you in San Francisco in no time at
all.”

As the jet leveled, Vryke felt
two forces closing in on him: death and detectives. But as he looked at the
endless blue sky and the Pacific, he was confident he would triumph. For he had
found her. She would forgive him unconditionally and she would be his for all
eternity.

I am the one.

Their meeting would be
magnificent. He envisioned it, and every glorious thing he knew of her. How she
would be working so near to Forever & Ever, in a gift shop with chiming
transom bells. He had visualized her warm eyes, her kind face and pure heart.
She’d been there all this time, dispensing the virtues, sympathy, gratitude and
forgiveness,
in the form of a card for a few dollars each.

She was
The One.

Many times in his mind he had
pictured her large uphill house near Twin Peaks overlooking the twinkling
lights of the city. Its perfect yard, its mature trees nodding in a breeze
under a moon gliding through satin clouds. He had imagined his hands on the
wrought iron of the front gate, the soft grass of the manicured lawn under his
shoes. He had even envisaged the fading sirens rising up from the Mission below
and how he would find her Edwardian house armed with a VigilShield electronic
surveillance home security system that he could easily disarm. How the thick
shrubs in the darkness would allow him to work undetected at a rear basement
window. He imagined slipping on his omni-scope night-vision goggles that would
read the ambient light, transform it into eerie monochrome images. He
envisioned setting down his small bag of tools in silence because each was
wrapped in a towel. He envisioned easily removing the steel prowler bars from
the window, quietly cutting the glass, replacing it all carefully upon entering
her basement so it appeared untouched.

He had imagined how he would take
his time to find his way quietly to the main floor, pausing on each step,
emerging in her kitchen that would be so fragrant with fresh flowers as he
moved into the living room.

He had visualized the pendulum,
heard it ticking in the grandfather clock as he padded up the staircase, moving
with utmost care as he checked each room, until he found hers, light with her
scent, a mild mixture of soap, lavender, and perfume. He imagined stopping to
savor it.

He had pictured himself entering
her room like a dream, seeing her computer on the desk in the corner, the very
vehicle through which she had dispatched her promise to deliver him from all
the sins of his past life and eternal damnation. How with utmost reverence, he
would caress its keyboard. Then he saw himself turning to find her asleep on
her large bed.

That is how he had imagined it
would be.

Now Vryke was basking in the
reward of his cyber intrusion into every facet of her life. After landing, he
had rented a car, checked into a motel, waited for night, then made his way to
her hilltop home and their destiny. In all the pain-filled years he had spent
searching the world, he had ached to know this moment; had envisioned it in a
million dreams.

No need to dream anymore.

It was now real.

He was here. Lit with the glory
of The One.

Looking down upon Olivia Grant
asleep in her bed, breezes parting the window’s curtains heralding the night
sky to paint her with moonlight. Standing there, an other-worldly apparition in
his dark hooded coveralls, his infrared glasses, holding his breath behind his
surgical mask. Enraptured. His heart ascended as her face turned to him.
Behold, the sorrow and the pity, the grace she held for him. Divine
Forgiveness.

It brought Vryke to his knees.

He dared to move his face near to
hers, his tiny camera lenses recording the final chapter.

He reached out to touch her, his
hand mere inches from her cheek when he refrained, holding himself dead still
for several moments, creating a portrait of beauty and pain. Vryke blinked back
his tears. His search had ended. His mission fulfilled. They would be together
forever. Without a sound, the fingers of his latex gloves reached into his bag,
feeling the injection kit, bypassing it for the big towel.

The surgical bone saw.

The Spitteler 4000. Custom made
in Zurich. Ordered from OrthoSuisee Instruments off the Web. Its twelve-inch
carbon-treated steel blade, designed for quick clean amputation of large bones,
glinted in the night as Vryke unwrapped it, gripped its sculpted pistol handle
fiercely with his right hand and lowered the instrument one inch over Olivia’s
exposed neck.

Lining it up, adrenaline pumping,
his heart thumping.
Two strokes.
With every ounce of his strength.
Outward, then inward, full bore sawing motions. He coached himself. It would be
quick. She would feel nothing. The blade would saw out, slicing through veins,
arteries, trachea, and esophagus, biting into the cervical vertebra, severing
it cleanly on the backstroke. The Spitteler 4000 was amazingly effective on the
stray animals he had tested it on.

Two strokes.

As long as she did not open her
eyes.

What if she opened her eyes,
Eugene?

His fingers began tingling. A
seizure? No. An electric current rattled his skull, instantly launching a
thousand pictures from his life swirling at the speed of light in the portions
of his brain uneaten by the acid.

Vryke a boy again in Galveston
the night of the crash. Vryke lying in the hospital bed feeling the light,
hearing the heartbroken nurses, feeling their warm tears falling upon his
shredded face.

They do not sting. The tears
of angels.

“His father will make it. His
mother won’t. Did the ambulance guys tell you what happened to him?”

Vryke was catapulted from the
rear through the windshield face-first, sliding on the road for some thirty
yards, conscious when his mother slid next to him.

“Oh, Lord, that poor child.”

But they did not know the rest
of the story. No one knew. No one would ever believe it.

Vryke grinding to a halt on
the road. His mother rolls next to him, her head coming to a stop a yard away.

But only her head.

Her eyes open. Her mouth
moving.

No. This can’t be.

The web of blood and tissue
curtained over his eyes. Is he seeing this?

Her mouth working, eyes
meeting his, gurgling sounds becoming words. The smell of the alcohol, she is
still drunk. No, please. She is speaking, words are coming from her mouth
“You’re a mess, Eugene! A goddamned mess! Look at you! I never wanted you!
Everything is your fault!”

No, Mother no. Please. It
can’t be. It’s shock. A traumatic illusion, hallucination. Oh, God. Stop it.

They found him screaming at
her head.

Stop it.

You leave me alone.

Two strokes. Two quick strokes
and she is gone. Gone forever. Replaced by forgiveness.

I am the one.

Take her into eternity with
you now.

Two strokes.

The Spitteler’s blade tremored
above Olivia’s neck.

Do it. Now.

An electrical current jolted in
his brain, signalling a seizure. No. He blinked, feeling his fingers sweating
in the latex gloves tightening on the bone saw’s handle, his feet pressing into
the floor, his body tensing to deliver all his strength.

Do it now.

Two strokes.

The phone on the nightstand rang.

No! He had forgotten the phone!

It rang again. Olivia stirred,
groaning, rolling away suddenly, just missing the Spitteler.

“Hello.”

Vryke stepped into the darkness,
able to hear snatches of the caller’s loud voice in the silence.

“VigilShield…problem
showing...dispatching a car...”

Within one minute Vryke had flown
quietly to the basement, climbed quickly through the window, replaced the glass
and bars, left her yard through the rear, then using his modified cell
phone/hand computer, reactivated the home-security system.

A few blocks away he sat on a
park bench, seeing a VigilShield van turn in the direction of the house.

Vryke raised his face to the
stars, drawing his breath slowly, reaching into his bag for his kit. He injected
himself before the seizure advanced, then remained on the bench for a long
time, letting his heart rate come down.

How could he have been so sloppy?
How could he miss something so simple? And how could forget the phone? What
else had he overlooked?
Go back now.
No. He couldn’t. Not tonight. He
was weak. So weak.

Then he remembered.

In her bedroom. The half-packed
bag. Airline itinerary.

She was leaving.

No. This can’t be. No. Easy.
But he was running out of time.
Breathe easy. Think.
He could deal with
it. If he worked effectively. He had come so far. He had searched the world.

She was destined to go with him.

Reed stepped
from the afternoon light into the
cool darkness of a bar a few blocks from Pier 39, a hangout for police
informants. He slid the bartender a ten-dollar bill, used the bar phone to call
Wyatt’s pager. When the phone rang five minutes later, the bartender answered,
then passed it to Reed.

“Got a message to call ‘Joe’ at
this number.”

“Yeah, Wyatt, it’s Reed.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I’ve got to see you. I’ve got
more data.”

“This is a bad time.”

“I think you should see this
stuff.”

“What is it?”

“Got to show you.”

“Reed --”

“You can see it now in time to
make use of it, or see it on the front page of the
Star.
Your call,
Ben.”

“Go to Sydowski.”

“It’s computer related.”

“What is it?”

“Could be the key to locking on
to this guy.” Reed was going to nudge him with a “you owe me,” but held off.
“Come on, Ben.”

“Public Library, main branch.
Fiction section. Near the books by Faulkner. In one hour.”

Reed found Wyatt at a table,
flipping through a tattered hardcover edition of
As I Lay Dying.

“You’ve got one minute, so get to
the point.”

Reed sat across from Wyatt,
pulled out a brown envelope, slid him the e-mail printout from Carla Purcell’s
file in Las Vegas, explained what it was. Wyatt read the note.

Dear CP:

I just have to know, if you
found the right man, could you forgive him the sins of his past life?

“All right, so?”

Reed told him what happened when
the
Star’s
computer tech, Sebastian Tan, had tried some sleuthing, then
slid copies of the three stills of Carla Purcell and the
Pieta.

Wyatt studied the murder
pictures. “Did these come up on the screen?”

Reed nodded. “Tan is good. But
when he knocked on this guy’s door, something was unleashed that nearly blew up
our entire system. Then this weird thing happened. It was like a home video
recording came up during the meltdown and I printed the stills from the screen
before it all vanished.”

Wyatt studied everything again.
“What is it you want, Reed?”

“Confirmation on the photos. If I
call Vegas, they won’t tell me. But
you
could find out. Look. The blood
drops for tears under the statue’s eyes. It’s likely hold-back.”

“Reed, I can’t do that.”

“I am ninety-nine per cent sure
the man who murdered Iris Wood murdered Carla Purcell. This is his work.
Sydowski and the FBI have been talking to LV Metro. The women are so similar.
Lonely, shy, searched for friends on-line. You’re the computer whiz. Talk to
the FBI, talk to your Valley experts. You know I’m right. He posed them. It’s
his signature and there’s likely more victims out there and more to come.”

“Tom, it’s complicated.”

“I’m going to break this thing
wide open, Ben.” Reed stood. “I’ve given you a key here. I’m just asking for a
little help.”

Reed left. When he looked back at
Wyatt, he saw him studying the material.

When he returned to his desk in
the newsroom, Reed listened to a voice-mail message from Molly Wilson.

“Hey, Brader called me again at
home last night. I told him I was on the other line to my mother. Then he
called back and left a message. Seriously, Tom, you were right, he’s a creep in
the first degree.”

Reed went through his secret
files on the murders of Iris Wood and Carla Purcell. Reviewed the notes,
letting his thoughts form on how he would draft the story about the serial
killer who murdered them.

Reed’s line rang.

‘Tom, it’s Ellen Crenshaw, Zach’s
doctor. I got your message from this morning. Your suspicions about mice are
correct. I got the test results. He’s reacting to mouse droppings.”

“Mouse droppings. I’ll call an
exterminator. We’ll move him out of that room. We just renovated. That must’ve
stirred something in the house. They’re right above his bed.”

“He hasn’t suffered anything
serious. We can give him something. He should be fine if you take those steps
at home. Can you bring him in, say, next Thursday at noon?”

“Next Thursday at noon. I’ll get
Ann to call you. Thanks, Ellen.”

Brader materialized at Reed’s
desk. His face was cold. “Mice? That’s what you’re investigating now?” Brader
shook his head. In his hand, Reed saw a file with his Las Vegas expenses. His
stomach tightened. Brader curled his forefinger, beckoning Reed to his office.

“Shut the door behind you, Tom.”

Brader tossed the file on his
desk, loosened his tie, put his hands on his hips and stared at his wall of
personal glory, keeping his back to Reed.

“Tom, it hurts me to say this,
but I called Folsom yesterday and did some checking on Donnie Ray Ball. I used
to be a reporter, you know. Seems he has no relatives in Las Vegas, or anywhere
in Nevada. What were you doing in Las Vegas? Why did you call Darlene Purcell on
the company cell phone? I checked your phone records. Why did you call her?”

“She’s related to a murder
victim.”

“A murder victim?”

“I was working on the Iris Wood
murder. Following a good lead, following your instructions to break news.”

“Enough. Tom, you lied to me. You
misspent the paper’s money. I checked with personnel and, just as I thought,
this is a firing offence. Now before I delve deeper, to find out if its
gambling, hookers or both” -- Brader turned, his mean eyes meeting Reed’s --
“I’m going to suspend you indefinitely with the strong advice you start looking
for a new job.”

“You sure you want to do this?
Don’t you want to ask me what I found out in Las Vegas?”

“No, Tom.” Brader shook his head
sadly. “I would hope that at a time like this you would demonstrate a little
more self-respect. No more fabrications, please. It’s over for you.”

“Just like that, Clyde?”

For half a second Brader’s
attention was distracted through his glass office to Wilson returning to her
desk. He stood, his nostril’s flaring and unconsciously patted his hair. “Yes,
Tom. Just like that.”

Reed returned to his desk
uncertain where to go. What to do.

“Hi, Tom,” Wilson said. “What’s
up?”

Reed’s line rang. He stood there
watching his phone ring.

Wilson was puzzled. “Aren’t you
going to get that, Tom?”

He snatched the receiver. “Reed.”

“Tom, it’s been a long time.”

Reed was not in the mood. It took
a few awkward moments of conversation before Reed realized it was a very
critical source of his who worked with Treasury in Washington, D.C.

“I know you’ll never let me
forget that I still owe you for those Forty-niner tickets, Reed.”

“Right.”

“You asked me to keep an eye out
for any alerts on that thing we discussed?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“Well, I don’t have all the
details but this is coming to you one time. It seems an alert went to U.S.
Customs for a dangerous suspect wanted for the homicides of two women. One in
Toronto, Canada, the other in San Francisco.”

“Toronto? Anything about Las
Vegas?”

“No.”

“Got a suspect’s name?”

“No way. I know it’s got flags
all over it. FBI, RCMP. No details. I have no access to the thing and I
wouldn’t dare try. I heard from a friend of a friend.”

“How old is it?”

“Less than forty-eight hours. So
we even, pal?”

“Almost,” Reed said, grabbing his
jacket.

“Molly, I need a big confidential
favor.”

“All better, sad grumpy boy? That
must’ve been a good call.”

“Keep this under wraps for now,
but get the library to run an urgent check on all Toronto papers and wire
service for recent female homicides that might be similar to Iris Wood’s.
Single women, posed, or in a public place. You know. Call me on my cell the
instant you find anything.”

“What about my dilemma with
you-know-who?”

“You still got his message to
you?”

“Yes, it’s creepy.”

“Tell him to consider his family
and to back off, or else copies of his call go to his wife, the editor of this
paper, and your lawyer.”

“Don’t tell anybody about this,
Tom.”

“Sure. Got to go.”

Wilson’s call came when Reed was
mounting the steps of the Hall of Justice.

“Belinda Holcomb. Office worker.
Found murdered in a Toronto movie theater during a showing of
Romeo and
Juliet.
Tom, it was less than two weeks after Iris Wood.”

“She married? Boyfriends?”

“Hang on. Local papers did some
nice features. No. She’s a farm girl from a border town near Minnesota. Her
father, Les Holcomb, says his daughter moved to Toronto years ago but always
lived alone, kept to herself.”

“What does the last story say on
the case status?”

“No arrests. Investigation
continues.”

“Thanks. Molly.”

Reed was turned away at the
homicide detail and advised to wait for Sydowski in the cafeteria. He sat there
for nearly thirty minutes before Sydowski appeared and bought an orange. He
joined Reed, all business, no smiles, his big thumbs ripping the skin from the
fruit.

“What is it, Reed?”

“I know about Belinda Holcomb in
the movie theater. The border alert. I know about Las Vegas, Carla Purcell,
posed on the statue in the church. You’re chasing a serial killer.”

“Wow, that’s a relief. Okay,
thanks for sharing. Bye.”

“Walt, I’m going to write about
it.”

Sydowski gritted his teeth as he
tore the peeling away. “Are you, now?”

“I’ve got it nailed. I know the
cases in Toronto, in Nevada.”

A large vein in Sydowski’s
jawline pulsated. “You don’t know shit.”

Conversations nearby ceased.
People stared.

Sydowski chewed on a large piece
of orange, like a tiger ripping into its prey. When he finished he glared at
Reed. “Now because of all we’ve endured together, I’m going to tell you this
man-to-idiot. Got that? You would be wise -- Are you listening to me? You would
be very wise to hold off a little longer because, as usual, your facts are just
a little out of focus.”

Reed steepled his fingers. “I
don’t think so, Walt.”

Sydowski leaned toward Reed. “I
told you from the get-go to stay with this one. It’s bad.”

“Right.”

“That’s right, it’s worse than I
thought.” Sydowski stood to leave. “Now unfortunately, there is this little
thing called freedom of the press to fuck up my case.”

“Didn’t Nixon say that?”

Sydowski leaned back into Reed.
“Listen to me, wiseass. You hold off on your story and I’ll help you later. If
you write it now, people could die.”

Reed said nothing.

“You understand, Reed?”

Sydowski went to the cash
register display to buy some Tums, popping one in his mouth, shooting him a
parting glare.

Alone, Reed exhaled slowly,
Sydowski seemed genuinely worried, his words reverberating in his ears.

“It’s worse than I thought.”