Authors: Donn Cortez
The Closer (26 page)
Bon scrawled his signature while Julia examined the envelope. “Says it’s from Idaho,” she said.
“Idaho? I don’t know anyone in Idaho,” Bon said. The driver was already gone.
Bon shrugged, then looked at the shipping label. “Well, it’s the right address,” he said. “From someplace called ‘FX Labs.’ Let’s see what it is.”
He ripped open the envelope. There were two things inside: a videotape, and a sealed plastic Baggie. Clearly visible within was a human hand.
“Gross!” Julia said, laughing. “You got a new special on the menu?”
“I know what this is,” Bon said, shaking his head and grinning. “It’s those guys from that movie. They said they were going to make me famous!” Vancouver hosted so many film productions it was known as Hollywood North; people in the industry often found themselves sitting in one of Bon’s booths or on one of his many mismatched chairs. Movie posters and memorabilia covered the walls.
“Is there a note?” Julia asked.
“No.” Bon frowned, then slipped the Baggie underneath the counter so customers wouldn’t see it. “Just a joke, I’m sure….”
They went back to work. About an hour and a half later, a man in a suit entered through the back door that led to the parking lot. He walked up to Bon and said, “Uh, excuse me? Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, what can I do for you?” Bon beamed at him; he treated all his customers like they were regulars.
“I was just wondering if a package might have been delivered here by mistake.”
Bon squinted at him, grinned. “Depends. What was in it?”
“Well—a fake hand. And some pictures.”
Bon laughed, clapped the man on the back. “Aha! So you’re the one! We were wondering what the heck that was all about!”
The man smiled sheepishly. He was in his thirties, clean-shaven, tie loosened around his collar. “Yeah, sorry about that. It’s from a special-effects place in the States, they’re doing a little work for us. TV pilot.”
“Sure, sure. No problem. I’ll go get it.” Bon led the man to the counter, pulled out the bag and video. “No pictures, though—just this tape.”
“Oh, right, that makes sense. They were going to send me some stills, but I guess they went ahead with the footage instead. Thanks.”
“No problem!”
The man left the way he’d arrived, through the back.
Jack had arrived early, checked for possible surveillance. There didn’t seem to be any. He parked across the street, watched the delivery happen through the glass front door, and studied the customers coming and going for ninety minutes. If the place was being watched by the police, he couldn’t tell.
Finally, he’d gone in and gotten the package. Nobody swooped in to arrest him. He hadn’t expected a videotape; the first thing he’d done when he got back in the van was crack it open with a pair of pliers. There was no tracking device he could see, nor was anything hidden in the flesh of the hand. He drove back to Surrey, stopping along the way to pick up a secondhand VCR and TV at a pawnshop.
Once home, he hooked up the TV equipment and repaired the casing of the video with some duct tape. When he was satisfied that it would run, he slipped it in and hit Play.
Black screen. Words in red appeared:
Ad mala patrat haec sunt atra theatra parata.
Apparently Red Ed was trying to make up for his lack of eloquence online by impressing Djinn-X with his knowledge of Latin.
A shot of a young woman, naked, tied with her hands over her head in what looked like a barn. Light was provided by a single bare bulb hanging from an extension cord. Another figure entered the frame, dressed in white painter’s overalls, rubber boots, workman’s gloves and a green rubber mask. The mask featured a wide-open mouth crammed with white fangs and a foot-long tongue that hung down to mid-chest like an obscene pink tie. The eyes were insectile, bulging orbs made of some holographic material that rippled with rainbow color.
The masked man advanced on the woman. He had a hedge trimmer in his gloved hands.
The tape ran just over an hour. There was no sound. The camera, obviously on a tripod, never moved. There was only one, continuous shot, though sometimes the masked man moved behind the camera to change the focus. The footage was graphic and bloody and didn’t stop with the woman’s death.
When he was done, the masked man held up a sign, obviously prepared beforehand: HOPE I PASSED THE AUDITION. The tape ended.
Jack rewound it and watched it again.
He’d killed her.
Jack watched the tape over and over, compulsively. There was no denying it. It was there, it was real, it had happened. He watched the masked man reach into the woman’s belly and pull out handfuls of her guts while she screamed and writhed. It might be possible to fake something like that, but it would have taken an expert, a large budget and weeks of prep time. No, there was no doubt in his mind.
He’d killed her.
If the masked man had raped her, he’d done it off camera. His intention here was simply to cause massive bodily harm, and to prolong it as long as he could. He showed little restraint.
He’d killed her.
Jack studied her face. She was gagged throughout, but her eyes were painfully expressive. She didn’t look like a prostitute to him; more like a college student.
He’d killed her.
Red Ed had been trying to impress him. If he’d phrased things differently, been more specific in his instructions, maybe the woman would still be alive. But she wasn’t.
Jack was responsible.
He’d killed her.
The next message Jack got wasn’t from Red Ed, or the Patron. It was from Nikki.
Dear Jack:
I hope this gets to you. I don’t know if you even check this account anymore, but we said we’d use it if we ever got separated and needed to find each other.
Something weird just happened to me, and I think it might be connected to you. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I figure I should let you know.
He read about Richard, and his interest in which cities Nikki had been in and when. The description she gave wasn’t anyone Jack recognized.
Anyway, I’m taking some time off. I have a little money saved up—I hope you’re doing all right for cash. If you need some, please let me know.
I’m still pissed at you, Jack, but not because of the job. I’m still 100% behind you on that. I just think that sometimes you get so focused, you can’t see the whole picture. You have these blind spots, and it makes me crazy that you won’t listen to me when I try to point them out. I’m not trying to get in your way, I’m just trying to help. You taught me that the best way to go into a dangerous situation is to be as prepared as you can, to do lots of research beforehand. How can you make
good decisions when you don’t have all the information?
I don’t want you to self-destruct. The letter I left you was kind of harsh, but it was honest. And just in case kicking your ass doesn’t work, I thought I’d try something else.
I know you remember Luis, our first job. But do you remember Stacy Lombardo?
Well, I got in touch with her mother. Here’s a message from her to you.
Dear J.:
Your friend would only give me one letter when I asked for your name, which only makes sense. I want to tell you, though, that I will never, ever, tell anyone (especially the police) even that detail. Your friend showed tremendous courage in taking the risk of contacting me, even on the internet. By the details she shared, I know she and you are genuine and not hoaxes.
I just wanted to say: THANK YOU. Knowing how and why my daughter died, as horrible as it was, means more than I can say. You asked all the questions that I never got to, and you made sure you got honest answers. I am not a vengeful person, but I believe Luis Chavez got what he deserved.
Your friend says that lately you seem to be having problems. I am truly sorry to hear that. I’m sure the price you pay for what you do is high. I can’t say that I understand what you are going through, because what you do is something few people could. Your friend says that you do not enjoy inflicting pain and only do so because you have to. I believe that, because only someone of honor would put themselves in the position you have. You risk your life, your freedom and maybe even your soul, and nobody even knows who you are.
I just wanted you to know you make a difference. My
daughter and my family are at peace, now. You gave us that, and we are eternally grateful. You are a good man. Please, be careful and take care of yourself. What you do is important.
God Bless You,
Emily Lombardo
Jack looked up, his eyes stinging. “You’re welcome,” he said softly.
DJINN-X: Congratulations—you’re in. The video in particular was very convincing.
RED ED: Thanks. I know you said to send pictures but I thought the video would be better. She was a hore I picked up in the city.
In case you can’t tell, the hand isnt from her its from the one I told you about.
DJINN-X: I noticed that. Can I ask why?
RED ED: The body kind of fell apart when I dug it up and I didnt think it looked very real. Plus this way I have prooved two kills not one.
DJINN-X: I hate to break it to you, but you haven’t proved as much as you think. The hand could have come from any grave. The video was convincing, but how do I know when it was done? Maybe you killed someone ten years ago and haven’t done anything since.
I hope I’m not coming across too harshly. You have to understand how careful we have to be, for your protection as well as ours. If I truly didn’t think you are what you claim, I wouldn’t be talking to you.
RED ED: Thats okay. I should have thought of that and used a newspaper with the date or somthing. I could do another one.
DJINN-X: All right, but this time let me have some input. Let’s do this right, so I can introduce you properly to the rest of the Pack.
RED ED: Okay.
Three days later, Jack found himself in a motel room in Idaho.
Red Ed operated out of Coeur d’Alene, but he liked to make his kills in more remote areas; there were plenty just outside the city, where mountains and dense forest dominated.
Jack had decided to go with a modified version of Djinn-X’s initiation. He told Red Ed that he’d lifted the prints of a local hooker, and that he expected her hand to be delivered the same way the last had been.
From his motel room, Jack dialed numbers at random with a tape recorder in his hand. When he got an appropriate answering machine (Hi! This is Naomi— call me back, I’d love to hear from you!) he recorded it. He set up a cell phone account in Coeur d’Alene under the name Main Street Escorts, and sent the number to Red Ed along with a made-up description of Naomi.
Then he sat back and waited.
“Hello, Main Street Escorts.”
“Hi. Uh, I’m interested in one of your girls.”
“Sure. What are you looking for?”
“Uh, I had this one girl recommended to me? By a friend?”
“What’s her name?”
“Naomi.”
“Okay, yeah, Naomi’s working tonight. Are you in a hotel or a private home?”
“A hotel. The Broadmoor Arms.”
“Room number?”
“417. Uh, when do you think she’ll get here?”
“Probably about half an hour, unless she’s with a client. I can give you her cell number if you want, or I can call her myself.”
“You can give me the number.”
“Okay. If she doesn’t answer, just leave a message with the hotel name and room number. She won’t be longer than an hour.”
Jack gave him the number and then hung up.
Red Ed sounded younger than he’d expected.
It went smoothly, so smoothly he should have known something was wrong from the start.
The Broadmoor Arms was an old hotel, a four-story brownstone built in the twenties. It had lost any tourist appeal it had long ago, and now functioned chiefly as a way station for people on a downward spiral toward no home at all. The desk clerk was a young black man with a face so pitted with acne he looked like he’d lost an argument with a hornet’s nest. He asked if Jack wanted the room by the hour, the day, or the week, and put him on the fourth floor as he requested.
There was no porter, so Jack had to haul his luggage upstairs by himself. He only had one suitcase, but it was almost the size of a small trunk. Jack made sure that when he carried it, he didn’t give away how light it was. Jack was in 402. He put his case in his room, examined the door. It had a cheap chain lock and no peephole. He nodded, left his door open, and walked down the hall to 417. He drew his gun. With his other hand, he tapped on the door with his fingernails, just hard enough to be heard.
“Hello?” The voice on the other side sounded hesitant.
“Police. Open up,” Jack snapped.
The door was open no more than a quarter-inch when Jack slammed into it with his shoulder. The chain broke and the person inside was knocked backward; Jack stepped in and closed the door behind him.
The boy sprawled on the floor looked no more than seventeen. His body was chunky, his face square. He had glasses with thick black frames and long, greasy-looking dark hair. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a black T-shirt with a Metallica logo on the front. He looked terrified.
“Don’t, don’t shoot,” he gasped. “I give up, okay? I surrender.”
“Lie on your stomach with your hands behind you,” Jack said. He pulled a pair of handcuffs out.
“Hello, Red Ed.”
“Wha-whass happenin’?” The voice was thick and slurred.
“You’re my prisoner. I gave you a drug to make you easier to transport.”
“I can’t. Move.”
“That’s because you’re restrained,” Jack said patiently. “Listen carefully. What do you hear?”
“Hissing. I hear hissing.”
“That’s the Coleman lantern. Anything else?”
“…no.”
“That’s right. No cars, no people. That’s because we’re in a U-Haul trailer in the middle of nowhere. A trailer I outfitted just for you.”
“Who… who are you?”
“I’m the Closer, Ed. Or maybe I should call you Mark? Mark Reilly Anderson, of 109 West Florence Street, Coeur d’Alene, according to your driver’s license.”
“I’m a fake,” Mark whispered. “I’m a fake, oh God, I didn’t kill anyone.”
“I don’t believe you, Mark. I think you’re young and stupid and inexperienced, but I don’t think you’re innocent. That videotape was very convincing.”
“The Closer. The Closer. Oh fuck, oh fuck.” Mark started crying. “Please, please, that wasn’t me, I stole the hand from a funeral home, I didn’t make that tape—”
“Then who did?”
“Furious George. I met him online, we both hang out at the same site, massmurder.org—”
“Right. You didn’t kill anyone. A complete stranger did, someone you’ve never met. And they decided to send a tape to you.”
“It’s true, it’s true, I wouldn’t have even
known
about The Pack if George hadn’t told me—”
“That’s a clumsy lie, Mark. See, everything The Pack knows, I know. And I’ve never heard of Furious George. But I
have
heard of Red Ed… and I think Red Ed’s heard of me. Haven’t you?”
“I know who you are,” Mark sobbed. “I know what you do. Everybody on the site does.”
“Good. Then you know we have a very long night ahead of us….”
After the first hour, Jack realized how much he needed Nikki.
“This is how it works,” Jack said. “You may think I’ve done horrible things to you, but I’ve barely even started. We’re at the point now where you’re going to be tempted to lie to me, to tell me what you think I want to hear, just to get me to stop. That’s a very bad idea. It wastes my time and makes my job harder. So. Do you see this?”
“Oh God. Oh fucking Jesus—”
“If you lie to me, I’m going to use this on your genitals. So no matter how bad you want to tell me something that isn’t true, remember—I’m going to find out, sooner or later. And this—”
“Aaah!”
“—will be waiting.”
The problem was, without Nikki he couldn’t do verification. Fear, no matter how intense, would only work to a point—pain would eventually trump Mark’s responses, make him say anything for even a temporary respite.
It didn’t matter, though. That would only be a problem if Mark were innocent….
“NNNNNNGGH! ALL RIGHT! I DID IT, I FUCKING DID IT!”
“Who was it?”
“A girl, I don’t know her name, she wasn’t a hitch-hiker like I said, she, she, was just this girl I met in a bar—”
“Where?”
“Am—Amsterdam. I went there with some friends last year and we did lots of drugs and there, there was this girl, we went into this alley to do some crank and I—I wanted to kiss her but she just laughed at me so I stabbed her. I lifted her right up off the ground and her shoes fell off when she went limp—”
“Mark. I’m not stupid. You think I don’t watch movies? What is that from,
Friday the Thirteenth?”
“Halloween II,”
Mark whispered.
“Right. And Amsterdam is kind of hard to check, right? Except I don’t think you’ve ever been off the continent, Mark. I doubt if you’ve ever been outside the good ol’ U.S. of A.”
“Please. Please don’t use that thing on me—”
“This isn’t a movie, Mark. It’s not a videogame or a Stephen King paperback or a TV show.
This is real.”
“GAAAAHH!”
“You fuck. You miserable
fuck
. I don’t have
time
for this.
Stop lying to me!”
“I won’t. I won’t,” Mark whimpered.
“Ah,
shit.”
Jack dropped the pliers on the table with a clatter. He leaned against the cool metal of the wall, feeling sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades. “Do you even know what real life
is?”
he demanded. “It’s not body counts and hacksaws and bleach. It’s not about immersing yourself in blood and horror, about being
proud
because you came up with a new way to make someone scream. That’s death, it’s
just death.”
“It’s still better than my life….” Mark whispered.
Jack shook his head. “No.
I don’t accept that.”
He picked up the pliers again, then threw them convulsively against the wall. He slammed open the back door of the U-Haul and stalked out.
He was parked in a little clearing just off an old logging road. A crescent moon gave off enough light to show the bulk of mountains rising all around, but the forest itself was a dark, rustling mystery.