The Closer (18 page)

The figure held up a thin gray rod, about eight inches long, the bottom two inches or so bare wire. A sparkler, the kind you put on a birthday cake. He slid the gray end under the wire wrapped around the woman’s head, then fixed the other to her cheek with a piece of duct tape. The sparkler was now a vertical bar across her right eye.

“What are you
doing?”
the woman moaned.

“This will burn slowly, but very hot,” the Patron said. “If you tell me what I want to know, I’ll put it out before it reaches your eye.”

“I told you,
I don’t know anything—”

The Patron grabbed the woman by her hair to keep her head still, and lit the sparkler.

“WHAT IS THAT? WHAT IS IT? OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD,” the woman screamed. Her head thrashed around violently. Sparks flew everywhere and shadows did a violent, jerky dance on the black walls. “GET IT OFF I’LL TELL I’LL TELL I’LL TELL YOU ANYTHING—”

When it reached her eye, she stopped trying to talk and just screamed.

Just like Djinn-X had.

Jack remembered. The sparks, the jumping shadows. The smell of magnesium and charred flesh and burning hair.

The sparkler was done. The woman made a high, keening noise of pure agony.

“Say ‘Thank you, Closer,’ ” the Patron said. “ ‘For the inspiration.’ ”

“Th-thank you, Closer,” the woman sobbed. “For the in-inspiration…”

The file lasted another two hours.

Sergei Yanovitch tended to his menagerie.

They were housed in a quonset that used to store farm machinery; he’d walled off the back third into two separate rooms, but the rest of the building was one big, echoey space, easily twice as large as the trailer Sergei himself lived in. The trailer sat at the front of the property, a hilly piece of desert with only sagebrush and rattlesnakes for neighbors, while the quonset was farther back. This time of year, the temperature dipped below freezing at night; he made sure the fuel tanks for the heaters were full, then starting dishing out supper.

First was the octopus tank. He had a couple of nice specimens, the largest a good twenty pounds or more. Their food went into glass jars with the lids screwed on; the ones who figured out how to open them would eat.

Next were the dogs. He had two Standard poodles and a black-and-white Border collie—the collie had a pedigree from two World Champion herders. The poodles’ background wasn’t quite as distinguished, but they were a good breed. The collie yapped happily to see him, and he let it out to blow off some steam. He exercised it every day, but the dog was never satisfied—it would take up all his attention if he let it. It followed him from cage to cage, watching him alertly.

He’d obtained the chimpanzee from a private owner in L.A. who’d gotten bored with the novelty— not surprising when you considered the chimp liked to throw feces when she was angry. She was quiet today, staying in the corner of her cage when he slid in a plate of fruits and vegetables.

Last was the elephant. He was an elderly male, content to spend most of his time munching on hay and spraying himself with water. Sergei stopped and stared up at him in admiration. He identified with the old bull more than any of the other animals, with his power and strength; his weight bench was placed so he could watch the elephant while he worked out. Sergei himself stood only five foot six, but his muscular frame bulked out at close to two hundred pounds. The white T-shirts he wore to display his build—and his habit of keeping his scalp smooth and hairless—had earned him the nickname of Mr. Clean at the bar where he worked as a bouncer. The job didn’t pay much, but shrewd investing in the stock market had earned him a substantial trust fund. The income from that paid for the animals, both purchase and upkeep.

Chores done, he locked up the quonset. He let the Border collie stay out with him, which drove it almost frantic with happy barking. He silenced it with a hand command—the dog knew almost thirty, and could easily have learned more if he’d taken the time to teach it.

He returned to his trailer, the dog trotting along at his side. The trailer wasn’t much, but it was sufficient for his needs: a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room. Every wall of the living room was taken up by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, with the exception of the desk that held his computer. There was no television or stereo.

He gestured to the dog. The collie ran to the fridge, grabbed the short rope tied to the handle and tugged the door open. He stuck his head inside and came out with a can of beer held in his jaws. He nosed the door shut and then ran up to Sergei and dropped the beer gently into his waiting hand.

“Good dog,” Sergei said absently. He popped the beer open and sat down in front of the computer.

He spent some time surfing around doing research on large freshwater tanks—he was thinking about adding an otter pen—then checked his email. He had a number of accounts, under various names.

The Japanese import company he dealt with had a new catalogue out. He skimmed through it quickly, but there was little to interest him. A bankrupt zoo in Romania had a bear he was considering, but the price seemed excessive. He answered some correspondence from the Tropical Bird Appreciation Society.

There was one email that made him smile. “Well,” he said to the dog, “this calls for a celebration, don’t you think?” The dog panted enthusiastically.

He finished his beer and logged off, then went outside. He paused to admire the sunset; the hills looked like they were glowing red-hot, as if the sun were some giant molten coin sinking into the hump of a mountain-sized piggy bank.

He unlocked the back door of the quonset and motioned the dog inside, into his workshop. Tools hung in neat array along one wall, while a table held more delicate electronic gear. There was a drill press in one corner and a table saw in another. Bins held wood, iron rods and sheet metal, while shelves were filled with model paints, clay and various glues.

He crossed the room to another door, also locked. He opened it and again motioned the dog inside; this time, the collie hesitated at the entrance. Sergei gestured again, impatiently, and the dog lowered its head and went in.

A thick-legged wooden table stood in the center of the room. A wave of his hand and the dog leapt gracefully onto the table.

Sergei put one arm around the dog’s neck. With the other, he thrust an icepick into the dog’s heart. The collie yelped, then went limp.

Humming softly to himself, Sergei wiped clean the icepick and replaced it in the rack he’d taken it from. He picked up the electric shears, plugged them in and began to remove the collie’s fur.

A few chops with some mushroom sauce,
the Gourmet thought to himself.
Yes. Just the thing to celebrate the death of the Closer…

Jack forced himself to watch the entire file.

Underlying the horror was an eerie sense of
déjà vu;
the Patron had not only duplicated many of the things Jack had done to Djinn-X, he came very close to reproducing the order as well.

And he never stopped asking questions.

The answers, of course, didn’t matter. That was the worst part, knowing that no matter what she said, the Patron would continue.

That, and knowing what was coming next.

He watched the woman slowly go insane. In the beginning, she seemed convinced that if she just said the right thing, found the answer her tormentor was looking for, he would stop.

Jack knew that wasn’t true. The point of the questions was that they couldn’t be answered.

As the interrogation went on and on, her hope died. Her eyes began to dull. She stopped pleading and simply sobbed.

And screamed.

Peppered Brains

• 1 brain, precooked
  
• 1/4 cup pickled jalapeño peppers
  
• 1 tablespoon diced green pepper
  
• 1/4 cup sliced onion
  
• 1 tablespoon flour
  
• 2 tablespoons butter
  
• 1 cup beef broth
  
• 1 egg yolk, beaten
  
• 8 oz. can whole tomatoes
  
• 1 tablespoon capers
  
• 2 garlic cloves, minced
  
• 1 tablespoon lemon juice
  
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
  

1. Cut the brain into thin slices.

2. Mix the butter, flour, onions, and garlic in a hot frying pan until the butter melts.

3. Add the brains. Sauté until golden brown.

4. Add the beef broth and egg yolk. Stir briskly.

5. Add the peppers, tomatoes, lemon juice and salt.

6. Reduce heat and cook for another ten minutes.

Jack limited the Patron’s access to the Stalking Ground. He could send messages to Jack himself, but no one else. Unless the Patron was communicating with the Gourmet in some other way—highly unlikely—that would buy Jack some time.

The thing was, he didn’t know what he should do.

If the Patron truly knew he was posing as Djinn-X and Road Rage, there was no way Jack could lure him into a trap. The only upside was that while Jack didn’t know where the Patron was, neither did the Patron know where the Closer was. Stalemate.

Should he tell Nikki?

Once, he wouldn’t have even asked the question. Nikki was his partner, the only other human being on the planet who understood his mission. He trusted her with his life.

But did she trust him with hers?

He was no longer sure. The only room in Jack’s life for questions were the ones he asked himself, and Nikki’s sudden attack of doubt was a factor he didn’t want to deal with. But he couldn’t have one of the few reliable things in his existence suddenly turn into an unknown, either. If Nikki found out their cover with the Patron was blown—exactly as she’d warned— would her confidence in Jack vanish completely?

Would she walk away? Could she?

Yes. If her gut told her to.

He wasn’t sure what his own gut said. Seeing that innocent woman tortured by the Patron had brought the guilt and horror he kept suppressed surging up like bile. That he could fight; he had an endless supply of cold rage as a defense. But the questions the Patron had posed to the woman were disturbing for an entirely different reason.

They were close—far
too
close—to what Jack had actually asked.

Some of it was simple extrapolation—how many have you killed? Where are the bodies buried?—but it went beyond that. How they were asked, which act went with which question, even the actual phrasing.

The Patron understood how Jack’s mind worked.

No,
Jack thought.
He understands how the Closer’s mind works. That’s not hard—the Closer is a relatively simple construct. He doesn’t understand how
my
mind works, because he doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t know what my resources are. He doesn’t know what I’m willing to do to get him.

If he was going to catch the Patron, Jack had to be more than just the Closer.

He had to be The Pack.

Djinn-X’s fierceness. Road Rage’s meticulous planning. The Gourmet’s hunger. Even Deathkiss’s obsession was a source of energy to draw upon. Jack would consume it all.

He knew what he had to do, now. The Gourmet had to be eliminated, before the Patron found a way to warn him. The Patron would be left without allies, and he would know it. It would give Jack—it would give The Pack—the advantage they needed to bring him down.

Nikki wouldn’t understand. She’d fight him, argue that the Patron was the more important target. There was only one way he could see to circumvent that— even if it meant risking her walking away.

He logged on to the Stalking Ground.