Joe Victim: A Thriller (13 page)

Chapter Twenty

I’m getting hungry again even though dinner was only an hour ago. The easiest way to kill an appetite in a place like this is to think about what it is they’re serving. I do that now and the hunger pains fade a little. Then I make the mistake of thinking of a tender steak, some fries, some barbecue sauce. The harder I try not to think about it, the more I can taste it. It’s a last-meal kind of meal, and perhaps that’s what I’ll chose if it turns out I have an appointment with the hangman’s noose.

Of course the way to make sure that never happens is to find Melissa’s message. I flick through the books again, knowing there’s nothing in them, sure there’s nothing in them, and finding just that everywhere I look. It’s almost time for lights out. Our cell doors have all been locked so it’s just me, my cot, my toilet, and books that aren’t telling me what it is I want to hear. I can hear my neighbors in the cells next door. They’re talking to themselves. Or talking to their imaginations.

Six books.

One message.

Or perhaps no message.

Frustrated, I begin throwing them into the corner of my cell, creating a game in seeing how close I can get them to land to each other. The other game, the one that Melissa is playing, is lost on me.

I pick the books back up. And throw them again. It’s the most fun I’ve had in my cell. I kill ten minutes, wondering if it’ll be this easy to kill the next thirty years, or if I’ll be killed instead. The six books land in the corner. I pick them up. Line up the spines. Tap them so all the edges are level. Then throw them again. Tomorrow Caleb Cole is going to come and find me. Tomorrow may be my last day in this world.

I pick the books back up. Line up the spines.

I look at the titles.

Twilight Angel. Show Love to Get Love. Bodies of Lust. Love Comes to Town. The Prince of Princesses. Twilight Angel Returns.

Maybe that’s where the message is. Somewhere in the titles. I take the first word from each one. Twilight. Show. Bodies. Love. The. Twilight. I mix them up. Twilight bodies. Show the bodies. That bit works. Show the bodies. Twilight twice doesn’t work so much. Where does love fit in? Is Melissa telling me to show the police where the bodies are? The only one they’re looking for, or at least know whose to look for, is Detective Calhoun’s, the man Melissa murdered and the man I buried, the same man Schroder’s psychic wants the location of.

I don’t know. It’s a stretch. But Melissa does know where Calhoun is buried. Roughly. Because it made sweet pillow talk. The message—if it is that—says to show them, not tell them.

I don’t know. And the love?

So rather than being Negative Joe, a Joe nobody would like, I continue to be Positive Joe. Optimistic Joe. Likeable Joe. I imagine being outside. I imagine showing Schroder where Calhoun’s body is. Not telling him. Not drawing him a map. But leading him along the dirt path to the dirt grave where Calhoun’s body is shrouded in dirt. I imagine four or five other policemen with us. Guys in uniforms with guns on their waists. Maybe even the men in black who arrested me. I imagine walking—a few men ahead, a few behind, all of them waiting for the first sign of trouble. The air cold. The ground damp. Birds in trees that have been stripped of leaves. Then, from out of nowhere, gunshots start shattering the calm silence of the day.

Only it’s not daytime at all, it’s evening, it’s twilight, and Melissa is specific about that. Except she’s not being specific about which twilight. She knows my mother would have visited me today. She knows I’ll have gotten the books and would have figured out the message. She knows leading the police to the scene takes time, so she wouldn’t be planning on it today. Trial starts Monday, so she must be planning on it for tomorrow. In two twilights’ time, including today. Which makes perfect sense.

Tomorrow I have to show Schroder where Calhoun is buried.

Unless . . .

Unless what? Unless I’m seeing a message that isn’t there?

Positive Joe steps back in to save the day. He takes me back into the scenario. Twilight. We’re walking in a straight line. The gunshots. Birds take flight. The shots echo like thunder across the landscape. The policemen have no idea which direction they’re being shot from, then it’s over—their uniforms have red stains blossoming across them. Blood soaks into the dirt as Melissa steps into view. She wraps her arms around me and hugs me and kisses me and everything is okay now, everything is all right, and she leads me away from all the dirt and all the blood and into a life far from the jail cells with the pedophiles and the prison wardens, far away from Caleb Cole and his decision-making process, away from Glen and Adam and the hell they’ve been putting me through, away from it all and into bed and away from the darkness.

Negative Joe is coming around. He’s thinking that Positive Joe just may be on to something here.

Six book titles. Show the bodies at twilight. Love.

Now I’m convinced. Now I feel like an idiot for not seeing it earlier. It’s clever. Very clever, and Melissa is as clever as they get. That’s why she’s still out there. It’s why the police can’t find her.

And she’s going to save me.

Because she still loves me. Love.

When I lie on my bed I feel something I haven’t felt in some time—a sense of hope.

Chapter Twenty-One

Raphael heads inside and Kent and Schroder stay in the doorway. They have to step aside twice as more people leave, an elderly man nodding and saying “Detectives” on the way out as a greeting. Schroder recognizes an elderly couple who look like they have aged twenty years since he came to see them five years ago with the news their son had been murdered for a pocketful of change and his sneakers. The guy who had done the murdering had spent the change on a hamburger and had made it about halfway through before he was put into cuffs.

“Maybe we should have mentioned Melissa,” Schroder says.

“We agreed not to for a reason,” Kent says. “I shouldn’t have to remind you we don’t know if she’s involved, and if we start mentioning her then we risk people looking for facts that aren’t there. We can’t mention things we don’t know. Next thing it’s in the news, and false information like that might upset her. It might prompt her to make an example out of somebody. And if it is her, then we can’t afford to give her a heads-up that we know it’s her.”

“I know,” Schroder says, tightening his jaw. “I used to do this for a living.”

She smiles and it breaks the tension. “I know. I’m sorry,” she says.

The conversation reminds him of the kind of talks he used to have with his partner, with Theodore Tate, after Tate stopped being his partner and became a private investigator after his daughter was killed. Four weeks ago Tate started the process of becoming a cop again. He’s still in that process—though it’s on hold as he fights for his life in a coma. It’s almost as if the two men have exchanged roles. Tate is becoming a cop, and Schroder is becoming whatever the hell it is that Tate was. Maybe even something worse. Tate and Tate’s wife have swapped roles too—the same accident that cost Tate his daughter also put his wife into a vegetative state—she came out of it the same day Tate went into his.

The same day Schroder killed that woman.

It’s a topsy-turvy world. Go figure.

“I’m still thinking it wouldn’t hurt,” he says. “We should tell him.”

“You heard him,” Kent says. “There were no women here acting suspiciously. And really, what reason would Melissa have for coming here? It was a good idea earlier,” she says, “and it still is. We’ll track down the list of names, and of course we’ll get the prosecution witness list and work with that.”

Only it won’t be
we,
it will be
them.
He’s not part of this. Now after a couple of years of dealing with Theodore Tate, he finally sees where Tate was coming from because he’s now going through the same damn thing. Some things are just impossible to let go.

“Maybe we should show him the photograph of Melissa anyway,” he says. “But not say it’s her.”

Kent sighs.

“We just say it’s a person of interest,” he adds.

“And maybe he’ll say he’s seen her in the news.”

“And maybe he’ll say he’s seen her around.”

She slowly nods. “Okay. You got one?”

He jogs back to the car, his footsteps splashing rain off the ground and soaking the bottom of his pants. He leans into the back of the car and opens the case file and the photograph of Melissa isn’t where it should be. He flicks through the rest of the contents, flicks through them again, then looks on the floor and around the rest of the backseat while the rain soaks into his legs and lower back. The photograph is of Melissa back when her name was Natalie Flowers, before she named herself after her dead sister and started killing people. He searches under the seats. It’s fallen out, but not in the car. Maybe it’s back at the house. Or in a gutter somewhere, soaking up water the same way he’s soaking it up.

He jogs back to Kent. “Can’t find it,” he says.

“I’m sure it doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll show him one tomorrow.”

“Carl—”

“I know, I know, it’s not my case,” he says, holding up his hand. “I’m just trying to be helpful.” His cell phone starts ringing. He grabs it out of his pocket and checks the caller ID. It’s the TV studio. He should have been back on set by now. He puts it on mute and lets it go through to the answering service. Tomorrow
The Cleaner
is shooting a scene in the casino, where the main characters are cleaning up after a weekend of high-roller suicides.

“Well, while you were looking for the photograph,” Kent says, “I’ve been thinking. You heard what Raphael was saying about the protest? What if that’s what’s going on here? What if this has nothing to do with Melissa, but everything to do with the referendum? We were told in a briefing this morning that there could be as many as five thousand people showing up outside the courthouse against this damn thing, saying it sends the country back into the dark ages. And for all we know Raphael could end up with hundreds of people in support of the referendum, maybe more, all of them saying it’s the way of the future. That’s a lot of people all trying to be heard. That’s a ripe breeding ground for somebody with explosives to make a point.”

Schroder thinks about it. “You think Raphael knows something? You think the explosives are for somebody from his group?”

Kent shakes her head. “His group is antiviolence,” she says. “By the very nature of their group they don’t want people being hurt.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Schroder says, “but the opposite is true too. The very nature of the group means they’re pro-violence because they want revenge. People always think the ends justify the means.”

“Revenge, yes, but not against innocent people.”

Schroder nods. He’s feeling tired, and confused statements like his previous one prove it. When he’s done here he’ll head home, and maybe he can get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before the baby wakes up. “You’re right,” he says, rubbing at his eyes.

“But people are all kinds of crazy,” she says. “Somebody in either camp may just think explosives will help make a point. Somebody might think hurting people will help the greater good.” She stares at him for a few seconds. “Are you okay, Carl?”

Before he can tell her that he’s fine, Raphael comes back to the doorway. He’s aged a bit since he saw him last year, but he’s still a good-looking guy, the kind of guy you’d see playing the prime minister on TV. If one of the shows Schroder is consulting on ends up tackling some political plot lines, he should offer Raphael the role.

Raphael hands them a list of names. “It’s all I could remember,” he says, and there has to be close to twenty names on it.

“Do the names Derek Rivers or Sam Winston mean anything to you?” Kent asks, revealing names that are going to be on the news soon anyway. By the end of the day the country will know somebody is out there shooting some of its citizens—albeit not very nice citizens.

Raphael scratches at the side of his head, his fingers disappearing into his hair. “No. Should they? Are they dead too?”

“And you’re sure nobody stood out?” Schroder asks.

He gives it a few more seconds of thought. Then nods. “Positive,” he says.

“Thanks for your time,” Kent says, and they all shake hands and then she and Schroder are dashing back across the parking lot and into the shelter of his car.

Chapter Twenty-Two

It wasn’t just Schroder who showed up in the car—there was a woman with him. Melissa has seen her around. She makes it part of her job to know who’s manning the front lines of crime fighting. She doesn’t know her name, but knows she’s a recent addition. It doesn’t take a lot of wondering to figure out why Schroder is with her. The Carver case. They’ve found Tristan Walker and now they think there may be a link, and the Carver case was Schroder’s case, so now they’re asking him for help. What she can’t figure out is the connection they made to come here.

When Schroder pulls away with the woman, Melissa takes the safety off the gun and tucks it down by the seat. She puts the trigger for the C-four back into the glove compartment. She was ready for Raphael to point at her, then for Schroder to come over, and if that’d happened, then she would have provided some
ka-boom
for Schroder and the woman and some
bang-bang
for Raphael too.

Nobody else has come out of the hall for a few minutes now. Raphael finishes whatever it is he’s doing and comes outside. He locks up the door behind him, though Melissa can’t understand what there is inside that anybody would want to steal—the furniture wasn’t any better than the stuff you sometimes see on the side of the road with cardboard signs that say
free.
Maybe he’s locking the door so people won’t dump stuff inside. Maybe that’s what’s been happening and that’s where their current furniture has come from. Raphael tightens his jacket and runs over to her car.

“That was the police,” he says.

“Really?” she says, doing her best to sound surprised. After tonight’s performance she’s thinking she should have been an actress.

“Somebody was murdered today,” he says.

“Oh my God, that’s awful,” she says, and holds a hand up to her mouth. “Was it somebody you knew?”

“Well, not that awful,” he says. “The guy was a wife beater.”

Cue the frown and the confused look. “So why did the police come here?”

“Because his wife was one of Middleton’s victims,” he says. “And he was going to testify at the trial.”

“I don’t follow,” Melissa says.

“The police think maybe somebody is targeting people involved with victims of the family. People who are testifying.”

“That’s . . . that’s crazy,” she says, quite pleased to be hearing it, forcing herself not to smile. If that’s the connection, then she has nothing to be worried about because it really is crazy. “Is it? I mean, are we all in danger?”

The inside of the car is getting colder by the minute. She turns on the ignition and turns on the heater. There is only one other car left in the parking lot other than hers. It must belong to Raphael. It’s a dark blue SUV with the spare wheel bolted into the back, and on that wheel is a cover that says
My other car was stolen.
It reminds her of a phrase she heard a while ago—
Welcome to Christchurch, your car is already here.

“I doubt it,” he says, “but they wanted a list of people who were here tonight.”

She wants to ask if she was on that list, but doesn’t bother.
Stella
isn’t a name that will get them far. And if she asks, well, then that might make him suspect something.

“I want to hear about your plan,” he says.

“Why? So you can go to the police?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “So I can help you. If I wanted to go to the police, I’d have just done it.”

She knows that, but she asked it because she’s on an Oscar-winning performance here. “My plan is to shoot Joe before he even makes it to trial,” she says.

“Is that it? Is that your plan?”

“There’s more,” she says.

“I would hope so,” he says.

Then she says nothing. She stares at him, and after a few seconds he starts nodding. He’s figured out the next step. “But you want to know if you can trust me.”

“Can I?”

He stops nodding, the glow of the dashboard turning his face orange. The heater is slowly starting to warm up. “When Angela was killed,” he says, “I wanted to die. I wanted to buy a gun and put the barrel in my mouth and kiss the world good-bye. Losing her was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through,” he says, and for a moment Melissa thinks of her sister. “Soon after she died, me and my wife—well, often a marriage can’t survive that kind of thing. And ours was one that couldn’t. There wasn’t much that kept me going. But I came to realize I wasn’t the only one. Others were suffering too. I thought maybe somehow I could help them. But not a day goes by when I don’t dream about killing the man who killed my daughter. And there are other Carvers out there too. Other men taking away our little girls. This group, it’s at least something,” he says, “but the truth is if I could form a group of vigilantes to watch over the city and clean up the trash, I’d do that too. I keep seeing it, like something out of a western, you know? A group of do-gooders riding into town, you know, gunslingers. John Wayne types. Clint Eastwood types. But I can’t do that. Can’t make that happen. But what I can do is help you. I’m on borrowed time. Just waiting for something to make a difference. Something to live for. And that something is to kill Joe. I don’t care about my life. My life ended last year. This support group is like life support for me—it keeps me ticking, it keeps me breathing—but I’m not alive, not really, I’m just holding on. Killing Joe will bring me peace, and once I have peace, then I can let go of everything around me. I can . . . I can die happy. So please, Stella, tell me you have more than just a plan. Because if you don’t, all I have are my dreams. I will do what it takes. Absolutely what it takes.”

“Can you use a rifle?”

“I’m sure I can figure it out. Is that the plan?”

“When it comes down to it, are you going to be able to pull the trigger?”

Raphael grins, the grin turns into a smile, and then he holds out his hand to tick off his points. “I have two problems,” he says. “The first problem is I want Joe to be able to see me. I want him to know who I am. So shooting him with a rifle from a distance doesn’t sound like my kind of thing. I’ll do it, if that’s all there is, but I’d rather be up close. I want to see the life drain out of his eyes. I want my daughter to be the last thing he thinks of.”

“And the second problem?” she asks, and she knows he’s going to tell her it’s about suffering and torture. Of course it is. Suffering, torture, and a good dose of payback.

“The second problem is I want him to suffer. A bullet in the chest means he won’t suffer for long. So if that’s your plan and there’s no way to modify it, then that’s your plan and I’m on board, but if we can—”

She reaches out and touches him on the forearm. “Let me stop you right there,” she says, “because my plan will solve both of your problems,” she says, and this couldn’t have gone any better. It’s fate. Gotta be. It’s fate and her ability to see something in people that others can’t see. It’s come from experience. It was a steep learning curve that started the night her university professor tore her clothes off her.

“Trial starts Monday,” he says. “Is that enough time?”

“We have three full days,” she says. “That’s just the right amount of time we need to make sure this happens.”