Frenzy (32 page)

71

T
he killer had rented a small office in a building across the street from the Far Castle, telling the landlord he was going to set up a mail-order business. The landlord couldn't care less, after the killer paid him six months' rent and a generous security deposit.

From the office's single window, the killer could see not only the outside dining area of the restaurant; he could see the hedge maze in the garden, and near it, the birdbath.

The concrete structure had a floral motif and was bulky enough to contain a smaller, more elegant statue. He found himself sitting and staring at it, imagining what might be concealed inside its rough surface. There was nothing about the birdbath that suggested grace or the magic of true art. It was exactly the opposite, overdone and rather awkward. Lacking an artful symmetry. Surely, the killer thought, the monstrosity couldn't have been created to be itself. It must have some other purpose.

The other thing that particularly demanded the killer's attention was the garden's hedge maze. He sat for hours at the window, memorizing its every turn and angle. It became like a map in his mind.

And now the time to peel the concrete onion had arrived, layer after layer, until the beauty inside held sway, and the ugliness fell away forever.

The last thing on his mind was Nancy Weaver.

 

 

The killer knew the best way to do this was out in the open, clearly visible to anyone who would notice him. Not that anyone would pay particular attention to him. He had made himself into a common sight, even at night, in New York City.

His van was white, with “Consolidated Edison” stenciled on magnetic signs on each side. He had on workman's clothes, including boots and a dented and dirty yellow hard hat. Noise was something he didn't want. It might allow someone to approach him unseen. So he eschewed the air-driven jackhammer and stuck to his rusty pick and shovel. He gave himself plenty of light, running a thick wire from the truck's small generator set up next to the rear bumper. It was very directed light, centered on the concrete birdbath, so it didn't disturb his vision if anyone came at him from any direction. The compressor chugged away steadily; he could hear it and smell its exhaust fumes.

Keeping his attention narrowly focused on the birdbath, his senses tuned to his surroundings, he worked steadily with the air hammer and then, for finer work, with the pickax, chipping away concrete to reveal harder marble beneath. The more concrete he removed before trying to transfer the birdbath, the lighter it would be, and the less likely that it would be damaged. Concrete and marble weren't the lightest and most manageable substances on earth. If he didn't remove one while preserving the other, his task would be herculean as well as futile.

Even over the soft sound of the generator and compressor, he heard now and then the wail of a distant siren. The police were diverted, along with the FDNY. The public, as well as news wolves like Minnie Miner, would be occupied by a major fire, and maybe a dead cop. And the woman who knew too much to stay alive, Nancy Weaver, was most likely dead in the trunk of an old and untraceable BMW sedan.

Engines, sirens, death, flames—that was all somewhere else so he could accomplish his purpose here.

And it was happening! His quest would be satisfied. He couldn't help stopping work now and then to look down to see the cumulative effects of his steady effort with the pickax.

He felt a wild exhilaration. An awe. He was like a shadow Michelangelo, giving marble birth to something rare and beautiful. Doing what sculptors always did—chipping away everything that didn't look like some part of whatever it was they were creating.

The toil of his hands was revealing great beauty that would soon be his.

He would, of course, continue to kill. And he would win his war with Quinn.

 

 

Nancy Weaver was in almost complete silence in the darkness of the BMW's trunk. Sweat streamed down her face, into her eyes. Her tears were like acid, burning wherever they touched.

She continued to fight. Her bonds were slightly looser now, the tape twisted. But not nearly enough to suggest she might slip free, even though her flesh was coated with perspiration. Her futile kicks were becoming weaker. Her bare feet were bloody and battered. She tried to kick harder, repeating the single, desperate word in her mind with each effort.
Kick! Kick! Kick!

None of it seemed to make a difference, but it was all she had.

Outside the car, a reverse light and one of the brake lights continued their repetitive blinking.

At least the result of the electrical arcs she'd created weren't as drastic as Weaver had feared. There was no fire, no gasoline explosion.

But the blinking taillight and reverse light were dimmer. The battery was running down.

72

I
n the Far Castle's garden, the killer continued to work with pickax and shovel and Consolidated Edison equipment. Enough concrete had been knocked loose from the birdbath's outer structure to reveal
Bellezza
—certainly
Bellezza!
What was left of the concrete clung firmly to the marble, and there was still plenty of mud on what had been revealed.

The killer put down the pickax, backed up a step, and swiped the back of his wrist across his forehead. He felt almost tired enough to consider sitting cross-legged on the ground for a while. But he couldn't entertain that thought for long. His plan didn't allow for staying still in the same place for any unnecessary length of time.

He made a mental note to step up his dieting and exercise regimens, then began using his thick gardener's gloves to brush off what he could of the mud where it caked what used to resemble a birdbath.

When he thought enough mud and concrete chips had been brushed away, he attempted to lift the statuette. He didn't really expect to be able to move it by hand, but he wanted to get some idea as to its weight.

It weighed more than he could lift. He leaned his weight into it and rocked it back and forth until it broke loose from the depression where it had long sat in the garden.

Movement out near the street caught his eye, and he stood still and watched a man and woman stroll past on the sidewalk. They were holding hands, and the woman playfully hopped over the electrical cable leading from the van. To them, this was just another late-night Con Ed job. The utility company making sure the city would awaken to full power. They walked on.

The killer was reassured. He counted to twenty, slowly, then walked out of the garden to get a two-wheeled dolly from his parked van.

Much of the concrete had been chipped away from the birdbath. It should be light enough now that it wouldn't simply damage the dolly.

With the dolly, it should take him no more than ten or fifteen minutes to load the birdbath, generator, and cables into the van.

The rest of the tools he would leave for the losers.

 

 

Lucky Amber and his buddy Bill Jefferson, who liked to be called Jamal, were walking through the hot, humid night toward where there might be some traffic and they could flag down a cab. They were both sixteen, but Jamal could pass for twenty-one, which tended to get the two friends in trouble. They'd drunk beer while playing cards, but both boys were sober.

“Sounds like a major thing on the other side of town,” Lucky said. “Sirens and shit.”

“Maybe somebody with worse luck than me,” Jamal said. He was a tall black youth who was prone to taking a short hop when he contributed to a conversation, as if footwork were necessary to make his point. The two were on their way home from a seven-card stud poker game, where Jamal had lost over twenty-two dollars. No small amount in their neighborhood.

“Some of them sirens are FDNY,” said Lucky. He was shorter than Jamal, and broader. “My guess'd be a major fire.”

“I wouldn't bet against you, man. Not tonight.”

“Not
any
night on any
thing,
” Lucky said.

Jamal gave a little hop and said nothing. Right was right.

“That an emergency vehicle or something there?” Lucky said, pointing.

“Maybe a cab,” Jamal said.

“A
gray
cab?”

“Guess not. And it's got the wrong kind of lights, and the red one's blinking. Wrong kinda car to be where it is, too. Looks like a Bimmer.”

“Might be worth a look.”

“So let's go take a look,” Jamal said, with his habitual hop. Maybe the car was temporarily abandoned and would contain something worth stealing. Like drugs, cash, or an iPhone. Luck could change, couldn't it?

“Could be somebody wants us to walk over there so they can bash in our brains an' steal our wallets and watches,” Lucky suggested. He wasn't called Lucky for nothing; he always considered the downside and seldom took chances.

“Or could be two hot MILFs looking for action.” Hop, hop.

Faced with these polar-opposite choices, Jamal's suggestion prevailed. The two men crossed the street and started toward the parked car with the flickering reverse light and what looked like a blinking red turn signal.

But as they approached the car, Lucky saw that the blinking light wasn't a turn signal, or the front signal would probably be blinking white or yellow. And the back-up light should be steady, if the car was in reverse.

“Something's stuck,” Lucky said when they were about twenty feet from the car. It was, as Jamal had thought, a BMW, but an old one. With some rust on it, and beat all to hell if you looked closely at it.

Jamal peered inside. The car was unoccupied. Just sitting parked, blinking. “Ghost car,” he said

Lucky was beginning to get a bad feeling. “Let's haul our asses outta here.”

“It's a BMW, bro. Things shouldn't go wrong with it.”

“It's also about twenty years old,” Lucky said.

Jamal shrugged, hopped. “So it's a classic. Belongs to some rich guy who'll give us a reward for alerting him that his car is screwed up.”

“If we could find him,” Lucky said.

“Or her.”

Lucky smiled. “There is that possibility.”

The two kids had almost reached the car when a taxi turned at the intersection.

The cabbie saw them and steered toward them, cruising for a fare.

“Here's where we spend some of your winnings,” Jamal said.

The cab was veering in to be at the curb in front of them. Lucky took a step. Paused. He was staring at the old gray Bimmer.

“Wha's it?” Jamal asked.

“I heard something knocking.”

“I heard a voice said, ‘Take this cab.' ” Jamal hopped toward the taxi.

“It's coming from that car.” Lucky pointed toward the BMW. He glanced around. “Who'd park here, anyway? It's a long walk to anything.” He raised a hand, stood still. “There it is again. And look at the car. It's kind of rocking.”

“So maybe some couple's in there doing the nasty.”

“No. There's nobody in there.” Lucky headed toward the BMW again.

Jamal turned halfway and raised his hand, signaling to the cabbie that yes, they wanted the cab, and motioned for it to come on.

Lucky was already at the BMW, cast in red from the blinking taillight, when Jamal reached him.

Jamal stopped and stood still. He heard the knocking, too.

“There's something trapped in there,” Lucky said. “Or someone.” He moved to where he could see the car's interior. He tried the door and found it locked “There's nobody inside here.”

“What I said, man.”

“Noise gotta be coming from the trunk.”

Jamal could hear the knocking clearly now. Whoever or whatever was inside the trunk must have heard them on the outside. “Somethin's alive in there, bro.”

“Let's open it,” Lucky said.

“Can't. No handle. And we ain't got no key.”

The cabdriver had figured things out, a car parked in a godforsaken place, its lights blinking erratically, two curious young guys, trying to get the trunk open. He got a pry bar from the tool box he carried in the cab's trunk and went over to them. He could go either way with the pry bar, if he had to. But these two didn't seem dangerous. Couple of kids.

“There's something or someone trapped in there,” Lucky said, pointing.

“I'd bet on
someone,
” the cabbie said, leaning close with his ear to the trunk lid. “Unless
something's
learned to holler for help.” He jammed the iron pry bar's edge beneath the lip of the trunk lid. The metal made a squealing sound.

“That's a BMW,” Lucky noted.

“It's an old pile of crap, too,” the cabbie said. “And some poor bastard's trapped in the trunk and trying to get out.”

“Could be a classic,” Jamal said.

“Stand back,” the cabbie said, bearing his weight down on the pry bar. “Might be a guy with a gun in there.”

The lock gave and the trunk lid sprang open.

It wasn't a guy with a gun. It was a woman. She was nude and bound with duct tape, including a piece over her mouth that she'd worked half off. Her hair was plastered to her face with perspiration and she looked like somebody had beat the shit out of her. Even had what look like knife cuts and cigarette burns on her nude body.

The cabbie began using his pocketknife to cut the tape away.

The woman lay still except for sucking in huge breaths of the night air.

“Bet it was stuffy as hell in there,” Jamal said, unable to look away from the abused naked woman. Despite her abysmal condition she was actually kind of—

Weaver glared at him and said, “Look in your pockets instead of at me, and see if you can find a cell phone.”

She climbed out of the trunk. She was unsteady at first, leaning on the car, then was able to stand.

“You sure ain't got a phone in any of your pockets,” Lucky said.

“I can call in and get the cops here, lady,” the cabbie said.

“I am a cop,” she said.

Jamal and Lucky began backing away.

“Stay where you are!” Weaver said. “Please.”

They continued to backpedal. “It ain't like you got a badge or a gun or anything proves you're a cop,” Jamal said.

“They got a point,” the cabbie said, heading for his cab with its two-way radio.

“Why the hell are you hopping?” Weaver asked Jamal.

“He just does that,” Lucky said. “Hops around. Only sometimes.”

“There a cure for that?”

“Heavy stuff in his pockets.”

Weaver licked her fingertips, then touched them to some of the cigarette burns on her breasts.

Both boys stood still, staring, mesmerized. Jamal's jaw was hanging open.

“Don't run, but don't stare at me.”

They began shifting their weight. They were made for movement.

Weaver put her hands on her hips. “Listen, you run and I'm gonna remember your faces.”

“We
sure
ain't gonna remember yours,” Lucky said.

Both teenagers hooted. Jamal hopped. Then they ran like hell.

“Little pricks,” Weaver said.

The cabdriver was back. He was carrying a light blanket that looked like it had oil stains on it. “Help's on the way,” he said. “I thought you might want this.”

“Thanks, I do, even though it'll hurt.”

He handed her the folded blanket and looked in the direction the two teenagers had run. “They saved your life.”

“I wanted to thank them.”

“Notice how that tall one's always hopping?”

“Yeah. He should carry something heavy in his pockets.”

A hunched-over woman pushing a two-wheeled wire grocery cart had spotted them, seen that Weaver was in trouble, and was coming toward them at a slow but steady pace.

“A good Samaritan,” the cabbie said.

“Another one,” Weaver said. “I wonder if she's got a cell phone.”