The Killing League (22 page)

He quickly made up the pullout while she uncorked a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. They sat together in the living room, she on the couch, he in a leather club chair.

He looked at her. Time had only done favors to Nicole Candela. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Older, sure. But the clean lines of her face were etched with more definition, enhancing her classical beauty.

“Mumbuhi,” she said as she raised her glass.

He looked at her, not sure what she had just said.

“It means ‘health,’” she said.

“To health,” he said.

They both drank and waited for the other to start. Mack felt the wine slide into his body and he welcomed it. At the same time, he cautioned himself not to go overboard and do something he would regret.

“Okay, tell me what’s going on,” she said.

They had spoken briefly after Nicole was questioned by the team of detectives. Mack had also been interviewed, and then consulted with, on what had happened. Mack had been allowed to drive Nicole back to her home, with a police and FBI escort.

He sighed. “It’s a long story and I wish I had more answers,” he said.

“Tell me what you know,” she said.

“My theory is that some psychopath has organized a competition among active serial killers. It’s a contest. They’re targeting ex-cops, judges, lawyers, relatives of former victims, and victims who may have survived.”

“Like me. And you,” she said.

He nodded. “I don’t know what the point is, other than arrogance. Whoever is doing this wants to prove how good he is at killing. There are odds posted in Vegas and on online betting sites.”

“Sick. It’s just sick,” she said.

Mack could tell she was on the verge of crying, but he felt he had to tell her everything. He finished his glass of wine, stood and refilled it, then topped off Nicole’s.

Instead of going back to the club chair, he sat on the couch next to her. He put his hand over hers and felt a current run up his arm.

“It gets worse,” he said.

“Worse? How could it get worse?” she said.

She turned her palm up and her fingers encircled Mack’s hand. Mack felt her skin on his. Smelled her breath. He felt something shift deep inside himself. A door that had been closed off for years suddenly cracked open. Despite the pain, the death, the horror of what surrounded them, light flooded his soul.

He briefly panicked that she could see it on his face, so he drank from his wine, then turned to face her. He took a deep breath.

“Every contest has to have some sort of reward, right?” he said.

Nicole closed her eyes.

“Oh, no,” she said. She looked at Mack and he saw the tears in her eyes.

Mack nodded.

“You and I are the Grand Prize.”

94.

Florence Nightmare

“Thank you, Tyler,” Reznor said to the young coffee barista. He was her favorite. Tall, sleepy brown eyes, and a wicked smile. He was also ten years, okay, fifteen years younger than she, but who was counting?

“No problem, Ellen, have a good one,” he said.

She smiled at his innocence. Unharmed, unfazed by anything the world had thrown at him.

What a difference. When she was his age, she was an agent-in-training at Quantico, training hard, drinking hard, and having insane sex every night with Lance Gilford. The great sex ended when they married, and the marriage ended less than a year later.

“See you tomorrow,” she said to Young Tyler, as she always thought of him.

She took a sip of her coffee, immediately felt the anticipated rush of a great, super strong shot of caffeine.

She opened the door and stepped outside.

Later, she was never sure if her intuition caught the old lady waiting for the bus, who had now changed spots and was standing next to the window. Or that the bus schedule in her hand seemed to have a metallic glint caught by the angle of the sun.

What she did know is that she reacted.

The open cup of coffee was in her left hand, the lid in her right. She had taken the top off in order to let it cool faster, like she always did. Patience had never been her strong suit.

She jerked her left arm away from the thing that glinted in the light. Hot coffee went everywhere as the needle stabbed at her, the old lady crowding in behind it. Reznor dropped the cup and the lid.

She felt a sharp pain shoot down her arm.

She reached for her gun, but the old woman was pressed against her, pushing her toward the street.

Reznor felt the butt of her gun in her right palm. She freed it from the holster.

The woman’s breath was on her face. Reznor caught the scent of onion and toothpaste.

The old lady’s face suddenly became fuzzy and Reznor began to lose focus.

In fact, everything had a soft glow around it. Her mind screamed for her gun. She brought it up but the piece of metal felt like seventy pounds of pure lead.

She felt her body slam into her car but it didn’t hurt. Reznor no longer felt any pain. Everything seemed good and warm and sleepy.

But the gun was in her hand and it was jammed between her and the old lady.

Suddenly, she was on her ass, in the front seat of her car, looking up at the woman.

Reznor’s finger was on the trigger.

She fought the euphoria. The knowledge she was drugged popped like a small, fizzy bubble in her brain.

She pulled the trigger.

But the trigger wouldn’t move. It weighed more than the entire gun.

She pulled again.

Another bright flash of metal.

This one, not a needle.

A knife.

Something hit her in the face and through the cloud of gauzy, hazy clouds pain exploded like a shooting star. The woman had stabbed her in the face.

She flinched and the gun jumped in her hand.

Reznor heard the shot.

Something red seeped over her eyes.

Followed by total darkness.

95.

Mack

He awoke to the sound of his cell phone ringing. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, but then he remembered. He glanced across the bed at Nicole. She had heard his phone, too, and was looking at him with sleepy eyes.

He gave her a sheepish grin and grabbed the phone, climbed from the bed and walked barefoot into the living room.

Sal looked up from his dog bed near the couch. His stub tail wagged, thumping softly against the hardwood floor.

“Mack, it’s me,” Ellen Reznor said. Her voice sounded weak and raspy. Maybe it was just bad reception.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“They came for me,” she said.

Mack swore softly. “When? Are you all right?”

He paced back and forth across Nicole’s living room. His mind sifting through the implications.

He suddenly wanted his gun. In his hand. Now.

“I’m just peachy,” Reznor said.

“Tell me what happened.”

“Not important,” she said. Her voice definitely didn’t sound right, he thought.

He cursed himself. He had been so focused on himself and Nicole, he’d never thought they would go after Reznor.

Her ragged voice came through again. “Mack, I know who’s doing this, I know who’s behind it.”

“How?”

“My eyes, Mack. He always loved my eyes.”

Mack froze as his mind received the shock of an image of a memory.

Before he could grab it, his phone clicked and a new call cut in.

The voice of Paul Whidby shouted at him.

“Mack, are you there?” he said.

“Yeah, but—” Mack started to say.

“Get your fucking ass in here. I’m in L.A. at the Office, on Wilshire.”

“But—”

“I don’t want any of your goddamned excuses. Whoever’s behind this shit is here in Los Angeles. Your computer buddy back in D.C. tracked the access logs.”

Wanda Fillmore. She had come through, after all.

“Okay, I’ll be right there,” he said.

He dropped Whidby’s call and was about to update Reznor, but he was greeted with a dial tone.

He redialed Reznor. The call went straight to voicemail.

“Goddamnit!” Mack said.

Nicole came out of the bedroom and went to the kitchen. A fresh pot of coffee had brewed. She brought him a cup.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

Mack studied her face.

“I can’t believe this,” he said. “I have to go. Downtown. To the FBI—”

“Did they catch the guy?” she said.

He shook his head. “But they think they know who he is, and they want me to help them catch him.”

Or if anything goes wrong, take the blame
. He shook the thought off. He couldn’t worry about the politics right now.

He wanted to put this guy away.

Nicole put her coffee cup down and was in Mack’s arms. He smelled her hair. Felt her skin.

She leaned back and he looked into her eyes.

“Are you coming back?” she said.

He kissed her.

“Yes,” he said. “As absolutely soon as I can. You’ve got bodyguards left and right. Cops, FBI agents. Plus Sal. No one messes with Sal.”

Her smile was soft and tentative. “Someone would have to really want to collect their prize to come after me now.”

“You’re my prize,” Mack said. “Not anyone else’s.”

“Does that make you my trophy boyfriend?” she said.

Mack smiled. They kissed again.

No matter what happened, Mack thought, there would be no way he would lose her again.

96.

Mack

Mack rode the elevator to the Bureau’s 10th floor offices.

He found the conference room where Whidby was holding court.

“Mack,” Whidby said. “Sit down and listen.”

Whidby turned back to a large dry eraseboard stationed at the head of the long conference table.

“What we know is the attack was planned and well thought-out.”

There were a variety of names and locations, with arrows going in circles. None of it made any sense to Mack.

Mack shook his head. The attack wasn’t well-planned, he thought. Clearly, the attackers hadn’t known how good Nicole was at defending herself, or that her friend carried a gun on their hikes.

“The D.C. cops are still going through Dykstra’s hotel room to see if they can find any trace of orders.”

Mack’s head went up. They weren’t talking about the attack on Nicole?

Whidby must have meant the attempt on Reznor’s life. So Reznor had passed along Ruth Dykstra’s name. What had they found out?

Mack interrupted Whidby. “Can someone tell me exactly what happened in D.C.?” Mack said. Truth be told, if Whidby had been any kind of actual human being, he would have had someone call Mack. He and Reznor had been partners for years. It was a professional courtesy no one had bothered to extend.

Whidby ignored him.

“Now, we’ve got to find these people, and fast,” Whidby said to the group. “Clearly, it’s some kind of militia or a homegrown organization with a grudge against law enforcement.”

Mack watched as the assembled agents bent to their notepads, scribbling away. The sight of it infuriated him.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Mack said.

All heads turned toward him.

Whidby leaned on the end of the table, his big hands rolled into fists, his knuckles supporting his massive upper body. “Be a part of the solution, Mack, not part of the problem,” he said.

“The solution?” Mack stood. His face was red and he couldn’t stop himself from shouting.

“The solution is that you get your goddamned fucking head out of your ass and realize this is an organized serial killer. Probably the most organized fucking murderer I’ve ever seen in my life. He has orchestrated this entire sick competition among active serial murderers.”

“Oh Christ, here he goes again,” Whidby said.

“They just tried to kill Nicole Candela. They also hit Reznor, Judge Lyons, Dragger, The Nailer. It’s not a militia. It’s one man whose blackmailed these killers into playing the game. The guy is probably in his thirties, highly intelligent, probably involved somehow in law enforcement. Past or present.”

Mack considered his hunch, based on what Reznor had told him. He couldn’t mention it now, though. Not to Whidby.

“I knew letting you get involved would be a mistake. Get out of here,” Whidby said. “Now.”

Mack got to his feet.

“The only reason you brought me here was to scapegoat me if you fucked up, which is what you’re doing right now.”

“Get out,” Whidby said.

“If you really want to catch this guy—”

“Get the fuck out!” Whidby shouted.

Mack left, slamming the door behind him.

97.

The Commissioner

He knew the house well. Nicole Candela’s bungalow was so typical. He could picture the bitch telling friends about her “cute little house” like it was her choice to live here, rather than a big mansion in Beverly Hills or Malibu.

Such bullshit.

He’d been inside. When she’d gone on one of her long hikes in the hills, he’d slipped in and gone through everything. The big bed, the artwork of local artists on the walls, the cozy living room and the big gourmet kitchen.

He knew Nicole Candela very, very well.

He’d even gone through her silly little scrapbook. The Commissioner guessed it was probably some kind of tool for therapy. To help her look on the bright side of things. He laughed. Yeah, she’d see how well that would work.

The Commissioner’s mind went back to that moment in the woods, when it was just the three of them: Nicole, Kostner and himself.

Or so he had thought.

He stood at the edge of the clearing, camouflaged by the thick stand of trees to the left of the action. He had a gun and he was ready to use it. He wasn’t quite sure how he wanted to play this. He could be a hero, but he could also be the one taking all the pleasure.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Kostner started talking and playing with the knife, wasting time. He almost took over, but before he could move, the bitch yanked out the punji stick and buried it in Kostner’s throat.