positive thing, I suppose.”
“Strokes are completely unpredictable,” said Sylvia. “Just when you think someone’s recovering, they suddenly pass away, or vice versa.”
King shook his head. “Well, for Remmy’s sake, I hope he makes it.” He glanced at Sylvia. “You’ll let us know what you find on Hinson?”
“Todd told me to and he’s the boss. At least until the FBI or the state police take over the investigation.”
“Do you think that’s probable?” asked Michelle.
“For purposes of finding this maniac, I think that actually would be a positive development,” said Sylvia firmly.
CHAPTER
25
THE FOUR SERIAL MURDDERS
in Wrightsburg hit the national news pipeline that afternoon and continued on into the evening. Most citizens of the small town sat in front of their TV screens as dour anchorpersons went about dutifully explaining where the rural Virginia municipality was, and how it had been devastated by a series of violent and apparently random murders. State and federal authorities were on the scene, the TV people said, and hopefully, the killer would be stopped soon. Left unsaid was the fact that no one actively involved in the investigation thought that was a very real possibility.
Like their fellow townspeople, King and Michelle sat in front of a television in King’s office and watched and listened to the stories documenting what a slaughterhouse their humble domicile had become. When the fact that two letters had been sent to the Wrightsburg Gazette by the killer was announced to the nation, King exclaimed, “Shit!”
Michelle nodded in understanding. “Do you think the killer’s watching?”
“Of course he is,” snapped King. “The notoriety’s all part of it.”
“Do you really think the killings are random?”
“There’s no obvious connection among any of the victims.” King fell silent for a moment. “Except the reference to only one kid in the Canney and Pembroke letter. The question is, which kid?”
“I’m not following.”
He looked at her. “If Pembroke was targeted specifically, for example, and Canney just happened to be there when it happened, that means there was a reason for Pembroke to die. Now, if there was a reason for her to die, then maybe there’s a reason why the others died too. And maybe those reasons are connected somehow.”
“And the watches?”
“The guy’s trademark obviously, but maybe there’s more to it.”
“Hopefully, Sylvia will have some answers soon.”
King checked his watch. “I’ve got a dinner I need to get to.”
“Where?”
“The Sage Gentleman, with people in from out of town. You want to tag along?”
“Nope. I’ve got some stuff to do too.”
“Date?” He smiled at her.
“Yeah, with my kickboxing instructor. Our plan is to sweat and groan a lot with our clothes on.”
They headed off in opposite directions. As was typical for her, Michelle clocked an average of twenty miles over the speed limit in her white Toyota Sequoia that she’d nicknamed the Whale, in honor of Melville’s fictional creation, Moby Dick. She passed the last little-used intersection about thirty seconds before she would reach the gravel road that wound through the woods to her cottage. As soon as she cleared the intersection, the lights of the pale blue VW came on and the driver put the Bug in gear, turned right and started following her.
He slowed as she turned onto the gravel road, and watched as her wheels kicked up dust and bits of rock and then she was quickly out of sight in the gathering darkness. A quarter mile up and then to the left, he knew, having been up there already while Michelle wasn’t at home. There were no other residences within a half mile of the place. It backed to the lake where she kept a scull, kayak and Sea-Doo at her small floating dock. The cottage was around fifteen hundred square feet and designed with an open floor plan. He’d ascertained that she lived alone with not even a dog to keep her company, and safe. However, she was a former federal agent with specialized skills; a person not to be underestimated. He drove a little farther down the main road, parked his car on a dirt patch behind a screen of trees and set off on foot through the woods toward the cottage.
When he arrived there, he saw that the Sequoia was parked in the roundabout by the front door. The lights were on in the house. He pulled out his binoculars and ran them over the front of the cottage. No sign of her. Keeping well back in the trees, he made his way to the rear of the house. A light was on in one of the rooms back there, upper floor. Her bedroom, he surmised. There was a sheet across the window, but he caught her silhouette twice. The movements were straightforward: she was undressing. He lowered his binoculars while she did so. She came out a few minutes later dressed in workout clothes, jumped in her truck and spun dirt as she headed off.
He came back around in time to see her taillights winking at him before disappearing in the darkness as she rounded the curve and then was out of sight. She certainly moved fast, he thought. He eyed the front door. It was locked, but that didn’t pose much of a problem. There was no security system; he’d checked on that too. He pulled out the appropriate pick and tension tool from the set he carried.
A couple of lock-picking minutes later he was inside and looking around. The house was a mess; he marveled at the woman’s ability to function amid such chaos. He placed the device behind a pile of books and CDs gathering dust in one corner of the living room. It was an FM test transmitter about the size of a quarter. He’d soldered a microphone to the transmitter, which was illegal under U.S. law because it turned the transmitter into a surveillance bug, not that he was concerned about that violation of law and privacy. He hustled upstairs to Michelle’s bedroom, where he scanned her closet and found several black pantsuits, two white blouses, a trio of battered dress heels and also an abundance of jeans, sweatshirts and workout clothes and a variety of athletic shoes.
He went back downstairs. She didn’t have a formal office area here; still he sorted through the stack of mail haphazardly scattered on the kitchen table. Nothing unusual there so long as one considered subscriptions to the Shooting Magazine and Iron Women normal.
He slipped outside; he had one last task to perform. Because he was hiding these bugs at different locations, he wouldn’t be able to be present at all of them at the same time. Thus, he’d modified the transmitter such that it would connect wirelessly with a voice-activated digital microrecorder that he was now hiding outside of Michelle’s cottage. The transmitter had an open range of a hundred meters inside a building, and the recorder had a hard drive that would allow it to store hundreds of hours of recording. He went back inside the house, spoke and then hurried back out to check the microrecorder. His snatch of conversation had been captured on it. Satisfied, he drove off. He’d already bugged King’s houseboat, as well as the private investigators’ office and phones. He had quickly discovered that Chief Williams was using King and Maxwell in the investigation. He realized how very helpful that could be to him. So now at least two of the people trying to find him would unwittingly provide him with advance information. As King had predicted, he had been listening to the news. He was well aware that an army of lawmen was being assembled to capture him. Well, he’d die first. And he’d take as many others with him as possible.
CHAPTER
26
LATER THAT NIGHT KYLE
Montgomery, Sylvia’s assistant and rock star wannabe, parked his Jeep in front of the morgue and got out. He was dressed in a dark hood coat with “UVA” printed across it, rumpled dungaree pants and hiking boots without socks. He noted that Sylvia’s navy-blue Audi convertible was also parked in front. He checked his watch. Almost ten o’clock. Pretty late for her to be here, but there was the latest victim to dissect: the lawyer woman, he recalled. His boss had not requested his help on that one, a decision for which he was very appreciative. However, her presence here tonight made what he’d come to do a little dic
ey because he didn’t know which facility she was in. Probably the morgue, yet if she was in the medical office, he could always make up an excuse if she discovered him. He swiped his security card in the slot by the front door, heard the lock click open and went inside Sylvia’s medical office.
Only the low-level emergency lights were on. He threaded his way through the familiar surroundings, pausing only when he passed Sylvia’s office. The light was on, but there was no one in there.
He slipped into the pharmacy area of the office, used his key to open one of the cabinets and withdrew a number of bottles. He took one pill from each, taking care to segregate them into Baggies which he’d earlier labeled with a black Magic Marker. He’d hack into the practice’s computer system later and fudge the inventory numbers to mask his theft. Kyle only took a few pills each time, so it was easy to cover his tracks.
He was about to leave when he remembered he’d left his wallet in his locker at the morgue earlier that day. He put the pills away in his backpack and quietly unlocked the door that separated the two offices. If he ran into her, he could just tell the truth, that he’d left his wallet. He passed Sylvia’s office at the morgue. It was unoccupied. He went on to the scrub area. The autopsy room was at the very back of the facility; that’s where Sylvia would be attending to her silent companion. He wasn’t going anywhere near there. He listened intently for a few seconds, straining to hear the sounds of the Stryker saw, water running or sterilized instruments clattering on metal, but there was only silence. That was a little unnerving, although much of what happened during an autopsy involved such quiet. The dead were not going to complain about all the poking and prodding after all.
There was a sound now, distinctly, he thought, from the rear of the place. His boss might be on the move. He quickly grabbed his wallet and withdrew into the shadows. He was suddenly fearful that if she happened upon him here, she might start asking uncomfortable questions. She could be that way, direct and blunt. What if she asked him to open his bag? He pushed farther back into the recess of the wall, his pulse knocking in his ears. He silently cursed his lack of nerve. Minutes passed. He finally found the courage to come back into the scant light. Thirty seconds later he was out of the building and driving down the road, the stolen prescription drugs safely in his bag.
When he reached the place, the parking lot was full. He wedged his Jeep between a pair of fat SUVs and went inside.
The Aphrodisiac was full of life and activity, with virtually every table and stool at the bars taken. Kyle showed his ID to a sleepy-looking bouncer at the entrance to the room where the dancers were and spent a few minutes admiring the ladies. The shapely, barely clothed women were performing acts so lewd against the metal dancing poles that it would have caused their poor mothers to die of humiliation—after they had strangled their shameless daughters, that is. Kyle loved every minute of it.
He checked his watch and then made his way up the stairs to the second floor and down a hallway toward a thick red curtain that hung across the passageway. Beyond the red curtain was a maze of small rooms. He went to the first door, rapped out an agreed-upon signal and immediately received permission to enter.
He closed the door behind him and stood nervously, unwilling to advance far into the darkened space. This was not the first time he’d done this, but each time held its own share of risk and uncertainty.
“Do you have them?” the woman asked in a voice so low he could barely hear it.
Kyle nodded. “Right here. All the stuff you like.” He dug his hand in his coat pocket and pulled out the Baggies. He held them up like a small boy proudly displaying a dead bird to his mother.
As always, the woman was clothed in a long flowing dress with a scarf wound around her head. Her eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, even though the room was poorly lit. She obviously didn’t want to be recognized. Kyle had often wondered who she was but had never worked up the courage to ask. The voice seemed familiar but he couldn’t definitively place it.
There’d been a note left in his Jeep one evening saying that if he’d like to make some extra money, he could call the number written on the paper. Well, who didn’t want to score some extra cash? He answered affirmatively and was told that the small pharmacy Sylvia kept in her office could be a very lucrative source of income for him. Potent painkillers and other potentially mind-altering drugs were the items on the purchaser’s wish list.
With no scruples impeding him Kyle had agreed to look into it, had done some homework to see the best way to access this potential gold mine and had concluded that it was doable. Terms were agreed to, the deliveries commenced and Kyle had significantly increased his income.
The long dress did not totally obscure the comely figure of the woman facing him. The private surroundings, the bed in one corner of the room and the fact that they were in a strip club always made Kyle’s blood race. In a recurring fantasy he’d stride into the room, far bigger and more masculine than he actually was. He’d hold out the pills like he was doing now, but when she went to take them, he’d grab her, lift her up, laughing at her puny resistance, and throw her roughly on the bed. Then he’d fall on top of her and have his way far into the night. His sexual savagery would rise with the anguished pitch of her screams, until she finally shrieked in his ear that she wanted it; she wanted him, she wanted Big Kyle, so badly.
Even now he felt a rise in his pants as this wistful scenario played itself out once more in his head. He wondered if he would ever actually have the nerve to execute upon it. He doubted it. He was far too much of a chickenshit. She laid the cash down on the table and took the Baggies, then motioned with her hand for him to leave.
He immediately did so, folding the money over twice and sliding it into his pocket with a big smile.
Kyle wouldn’t realize until later that something he’d seen was of great significance, chiefly because it made no sense. And it would eventually cause him to wonder. And at some point that wonder would lead to action. For now all he wondered was what to do with the money he’d just earned. Kyle Montgomery wasn’t much of a saver; he was far more of a spendthrift. Instant gratification was very much a way of life for him. A new guitar, perhaps? Or a new TV and CD-DVD combo for his small apartment? By the time he’d made it back to his Jeep and driven off, the new guitar had won out. He’d order it tomorrow.
Back in the room the woman locked the door, unwound her scarf and took off her glasses. She slipped off her shoes and then removed her dress, revealing a silk camisole underneath. She examined the labels on the Baggies, took out one of the pills, crushed it and downed the powder with a glass of water followed by a chaser of straight Bombay Sapphire.
She put on some music, lay back on the bed, crossed her arms over her chest and allowed the power of the medication to send her to another place, one where she might, at least for a few brief moments, be happy. Until tomorrow, that is, when the reality of her life would come shrieking back.
She trembled, jerked, moaned and then lay still; the sweat was shooting through every pore in her body as she hit the highest high and then plunged to the lowest low. In one of the heat-charged spasms she tore off her sweat-drenched camisole and dropped to the floor in only her panties, her breath coming in huge bursts, her breasts slapping together as she rolled back and forth in a convulsion of manufactured ecstasy. Her nerves fired and misfired under the delicious stress of her potent concoction.
But she was happy. At least until tomorrow.
CHAPTER
27
KING FINISHED HIS DINNER
with friends around nine-thirty and decided to call Michelle to see if she was interested in a nightcap at the Sage Gentleman to discuss the case some more. She was there in about ten minutes. When his partner arrived, King watched in amusement as many male heads in the bar turned at the sight of the tall striking brunette striding confidently through the bar wearing jeans, a turtleneck sweater, boots and a Secret Service windbreaker. The fantasies they must have been playing wi
th, he thought. If they only knew she was armed and dangerous and independent as hell.
“How was the dinner?” she asked.
“Predictably boring. How about the kickboxing?”
“I need a new instructor.”
“What happened to the one you have?”
“He’s just not challenging enough.”
As they looked around for a table in the bar area, Michelle spotted a familiar face in the far corner. “Isn’t that Eddie Battle?”
At that instant, Eddie looked up, saw them and waved them over.
They sat down at his table, the remnants of a meal still there.
“Dorothea not cooking tonight?” asked King with a smile.
“That would be correct. In fact, that would be right for most of our marriage. I actually do most of the cooking,” he added with a boyish grin.
“A man of many talents,” said Michelle.
He was dressed in corduroy pants and a black sweater with brown elbow patches. Michelle looked down at his feet and saw loafers.
“I see you finally got the cavalry boots off.”
“Not without effort. Your feet really swell up in those things.”
“When’s your next reenactment?” asked King.
“This weekend. At least the weather’s been cooperative. Those wool uniforms are really scratchy, and if it’s really hot, it’s a killer. Although I’m thinking about retiring from it. My back’s about gone from all the horseback riding.”
“Sold any paintings lately?” asked Michelle.
“Two, both to a collector in Pennsylvania who happens to be a reenactor. Only he fights for the Union, but I won’t hold that against him. Cash is cash, after all.”
“I’d like to see your work sometime,” said King. Michelle said the same thing.
“Well, I have it all in the studio behind the house. Give me a call whenever. I’ll be glad to give you a tour.” He waved to the waiter. “You two look thirsty, and as my mother would say, it’s bad manners and a damn shame to drink alone.”
As they waited for their cocktails, Eddie said, “So have you solved the case and gotten Junior Deaver off the hook?” He paused and added, “Although I guess you can’t tell me. We’re sort of on opposite sides.”
“It’s not an easy nut to crack,” said King. “We’ll see.”
Their drinks came. King tasted his whiskey sour and then said, “So how’s your mother doing?”
Eddie looked at his watch. “She’s at the hospital, although it’s