Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels Mysteries Book 10) (13 page)

No. It’s not Irving.

It’s the boogeyman.

Home invasions weren’t normally Donaldson’s thing. But he perked up at the idea. The air conditioning was deliciously frigid. Once he got rid of Irving’s wife, perhaps he could stay a while. Shower and rinse out the catheter. Fill his belly. Maybe even sleep in an actual bed.

He locked the door behind him, then lurched into the kitchen. A moment later, an old woman with a bowed back and a wooden cane came limping in. She didn’t even notice Donaldson until she practically bumped into him.

“You’re not Irving,” she said, squinting through thick glasses.

“Good grasp of the obvious.”

The woman touched her neck.

“There’s an intruder in my house,” she said. “Real ugly fucker.”

Donaldson was momentarily confused, and then noticed she was holding a medical alert necklace.

She’d just alerted the authorities.

And then she whacked him in the mouth with her cane.

Donaldson didn’t have many teeth. Most of them had been chiseled out. So the four he had left in his lower jaw were important to him.

The old bitch knocked them out. All four.

Donaldson swung the crowbar so hard he broke her neck on the first blow. He had a strong urge to continue bashing until she was pulp, but he didn’t have time. After stuffing his mouth with paper towels, he quickly found the den and the office desk. The passports were in a cubby hole. He began tugging open drawers and also found a silver dollar collection in a binder, a large, glass jar of change, and a Rolex Datejust. The back of the watch was engraved, “To Irving, for 50 Years”. Reading it made Donaldson wistful, almost sad inside. Why the hell did those fools ruin a beautiful watch by adding an inscription? That took at least 40% off the resale.

Time running out before the pigs showed up, Donaldson hurried to the bathroom. When he opened the vanity, he gasped so deeply he almost choked on the paper towels.

Merry Christmas.

There for the taking was a pharmacy’s worth of prescription drugs. Muscle relaxants, sleep aids, anti-anxiety pills, and best of all; a full bottle of Tylenol-3 and a box of fentanyl patches.

Donaldson gathered everything in a pillowcase and hurried back to the garage. He relieved Irving of his wallet, which held eight dollars in cash and assorted ID and credit cards. Donaldson looked nothing like the man, and his age was way off, but he knew if he flashed it no one would question him. No one had the balls to ask a guy who had a face like chicken cartilage why he didn’t match his driver’s license pic.

He also noticed something in the pile of brains. False teeth. On impulse Donaldson reached for them, tucking the dentures into his pocket, then getting into the Cadillac just as distant sirens approached.

He breezed past the cops as they came screeching down the street.

Donaldson drove to a supermarket, parked in the busy lot, then checked his mouth in the mirror. Only five teeth left, all on top. He wondered how he was supposed to chew anything now. Maybe put food on the edge of a table, and then ram his upper teeth into it?

That didn’t sound very appealing. But what was the alternative? Eating baby food for the rest of his life?

He dug through the pillowcase, dry-swallowed four Tylenol-3s, and considered his options. Maybe he could get a battery-powered blender, and liquefy his meals. A cheeseburger smoothie would taste the same as a whole one, wouldn’t it?

Then he remembered Irving’s false teeth in his pocket. Donaldson had wondered what impulse made him grab the dentures, but apparently his brilliant subconscious mind had solved his problem. Donaldson wiped off some bits of cerebrum and wedged the falsies onto his lower gums.

They were too big, and didn’t fit right, sticking out at a weird angle, giving him a huge under bite.

Uppers. They were uppers.

Donaldson glanced in the mirror.

I look like the world’s ugliest bulldog.

He took the dentures out, then pondered his next move.

The car had three-quarters of a tank of gas, but Cadillacs weren’t known for their terrific mileage. The Mexican border was about four hundred miles away, and he had no idea how long it would take to find Lucy. He needed cash.

He fiddled with the GPS and drove to a pawn shop a few blocks away. When Donaldson walked inside, he was surprised how much they’d changed. Back in the day, hock shops were seedy places where junkies could fence stolen radios. Apparently, they’d been modernized into retail chains. None of the customers looked strung out. None of the smiling clerks looked shady.

Donaldson limped up to the cashier window and presented the silver dollars, watch, and Irving’s ID.

As expected, they didn’t question him. And watching the smiling clerk try to maintain a smile while staring at him was oddly amusing.

It amounted to over four thousand dollars. A fortune.

Donaldson was so flushed by the excitement of his windfall that he didn’t notice the two teenagers, who’d been waiting for him outside the pawn shop. One shoved him to the ground and held him, and the other did a quick frisk and found the roll of bills.

After a high-five and some celebratory hoots, they jogged off.

The smiling pawn shop cashier came out and helped Donaldson up, asking if he wanted him to call the police. Donaldson made an excuse about driving himself to the hospital, and then got the hell out of Phoenix, close to tears because life was so blatantly unfair.

W
hen we arrived at O’Hare, Harry took a cab back to his condo to pack for the trip, and I drove Katie back to my place. She’d been surprisingly quiet on the plane, and stayed that way in the car.

Odd behavior for someone writing a book. I’d encountered a few journalists in the past, and they usually had to be cut off because they seemed eager to pump me forever. So after ten minutes of silence after picking up the car in short-term parking, I finally asked, “Why Luther Kite?”

Katie seemed to gather her thoughts before responding. “All the books I’ve written have been about things that have already happened. Kite is still happening. Him, and Lucy, aren’t headline news. But they’re out there, killing people, getting away with it. So instead of covering the story, I want to be part of the story.”

“You don’t strike me as someone out for fame.”

“I’m not. It’s… well, you can go through life as an observer. An observer is a victim, in a sense. They react, but they don’t act. There are too many people watching, not enough of them actually doing anything.”

“You’re a writer.” I’d checked my Kindle earlier, saw all of Katie’s books already pre-loaded. Phin must have bought them after meeting her, and we shared an Amazon account so they downloaded to mine. “That’s doing something.”

“I’m doing something after the fact. I’ve read all there is to read about you, Jacqueline Daniels. All the books. All the articles. I’ve watched the video clips of your press conferences. I’ve even got the Blu Ray set of
Fatal Autonomy
.”

“I’m sorry about that.” Fatal Autonomy was a TV drama supposedly based on the exploits of Harry McGlade. In exchange for a favor I signed away rights for the producers to base a character on me. Harry got rich. I got sent adult-sized diapers every Xmas by Fatal Autonomy fans, because my character wet her pants whenever she got scared.

“You’ve made a difference, Jack. You’ve saved lives. You’re not a victim, you’re a hero.”

I shook my head. “A victim is anyone harmed by actions beyond their control. Could be a drunk driver, a tornado, a perverted uncle, a fire, a rapist, a con artist, a psychopath. I’ve been a victim many times. That doesn’t mean I let it define me. No one gets to define me but me.”

“Spoken like a hero.”

I frowned. “
Hero
is another loaded word. Most people get scared. Being able to act while afraid, being able to face fears and keep going; that’s learned. I’m no different than anyone else. I’m just…”

I searched for the word.
Unlucky?
I chose to be a homicide cop, so a lot of the shit I’d gone through I brought on myself.
Stupid?
It was true I had to be either dense or a masochist to do what I did for as long as I did. My job hurt me, and those I cared about, and I was still unable to live a normal life without taking care of loose ends like Luther Kite.

“Driven,” Katie said.

I tried on the word, and it fit. Not perfectly, but enough for me to be comfortable with it. “Yeah. Driven. There are predators out there, hurting people. I’m compelled to do what I can to stop them.”

“Why?”

Why, indeed?

“My mother was a cop. Maybe it’s genetic.”

“Nothing happened to you? When you were younger? Made you want to chase killers?”

I recalled my childhood. There had been rough spots, to say the least, but I didn’t feel comfortable sharing these with Katie.

“Being a kid isn’t easy,” was all I revealed.

“I’ve read you’re an insomniac.”

I glanced at Katie. She was staring at me like I was some sort of strange animal she’d never seen before.

“I used to be. Sleep better now. The baby changed a lot. Or maybe it was me quitting the force. Or both.”

“You’re not driven anymore. Maybe that’s why you were so good at your job, and why you couldn’t sleep.”

“Maybe.”

“When you did catch someone bad, could you sleep?”

“Yeah,” I admitted.

Katie turned away and nodded. Then she stared out the window.

“So you think that catching Luther Kite will make things better for you?” I asked.

“Let’s just say I’ve had more than my share of sleepless nights.”

I considered pressing her, but her body language had changed. She’d gone from animated to withdrawn within a few seconds. I concentrated on the road, tried to clear my head of worries, when my phone rang. I hit the button on my steering wheel that enabled hands-free Bluetooth.

“This is Jack.”

“Jack? Val Ryker. Been a while.”

I’d worked with Val on the CPD years ago. She went on to pursue law enforcement in Wisconsin, and we didn’t see each other often. Val was one of the few people I could call a friend, and someone I could normally count on.

“Yeah.”

“How’s the baby?”

“Cute. And exhausting. How’s everything with you?” That was always a loaded question.

“Good as can be expected. I take it this isn’t a social call.”

“My husband went to Mexico to look for Luther Kite,” I said.

“You’re going after him, and need help.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not… at 100%.”

My stomach clenched, and I wondered if she’d bail out on me like Herb had. I couldn’t blame her if she did. Val had been having a tough time these last few years. She tended to collect bad luck like it was a favorite hobby.

“I don’t know what we’ll run into, so I’m assembling a team of people I trust.”

“So, the idiot,” she meant Harry, “And Herb.”

The words hurt coming out. “Herb can’t help this time.”

“Really? Is he okay?”

“I’m not sure what’s going on with him. I think he’s burned out on serial killers.”

“I can understand that.”

“Well,” I said, ready to end the conversation. “Thanks for calling me back, and—”

“I didn’t say no, Jack. Only that I’m not 100%.”

“You’re sick?”

Val didn’t answer.

“How bad?” I asked.

“I… don’t know how much use I’d be, if things go sour.”

“Can you still hit a bull’s-eye from two hundred meters with a three-aught-eight?”

“You need a sniper?”

“I don’t know what I need. But it wouldn’t hurt to have someone watching our backs.”

“Well, then, have Winchester, will travel. Where are we going?”

“Mexicali.”

“When?”

“Two days.”

“I can call you when I’m in town. How many rounds should I pack?”

I’d been wondering the same thing. Best case scenario, we got Phin out of there, Luther and Lucy go to jail, and not a single round is fired.

Worst case, the O.K. Corral.

No. Scratch that. Worst case, Little Big Horn.

“I’ll bring guns and ammo,” I said. “Mexico doesn’t allow firearms to be brought in, but Harry has a trap in his RV.”

“A trap?”

“A smuggler box. He’s got some complicated switch system to open it.”

“I take it the baby won’t be coming.”

“No.”

“Bring the latest pictures then.”

“I will. Thanks, Val. See you soon.”

She hung up, and I let out a stiff breath, surprised by how relieved I was.

“Val Ryker?” Katie asked. “She’s coming?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s the cop who had that altercation with
Dixon Hess
.”

“Yeah.”

And it was a lot more than an altercation. Hess was another serial killer, operating out of Wisconsin. He’d taken a serious toll on Val and those she cared about.

I glanced at Katie again, saw she was staring back at me. “Do you have family, Katie?”

She didn’t answer.

“Because if you do,” I continued, “you should reconsider going with us. You know the Nietzsche quote?”

“I used it for my Andrew Thomas book.
He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you.
”