The Closer (28 page)
Authors: Donn Cortez
PATRON: Tomorrow’s Halloween, Jack.
I haven’t done one on Halloween yet. It seems a bit obvious, don’t you think? Too on-the-nose, too Hollywood. Halloween is already about death, so using my skills to link the day and the deed seems redundant.
But therein lies the challenge.
Halloween is about
mockingdeath. About
dressing it up in silly clothes, smothering it with children and candy. About pretend scares, so we can laugh after we shriek; about peering cautiously into the Abyss before spitting into it. In that sense, it’s as innocent a holiday as any, perhaps more so.
And of course, Halloween is about masks.
Masks to hide behind, masks to reveal. Masks to express our true selves. More art goes into this celebration than any other, I think. How much creativity goes into Easter or July the Fourth or Saint Patrick’s Day? They’re about tradition and the repeating of ritual behavior more than anything…but few people wear the same Halloween costume two years in a row.
We’ve worn our own share of masks, haven’t we, Jack? Djinn-X, Road Rage, Deathkiss, Furious George. Mr. Liebenstraum.
But the masks we wear now, of the Patron and the Closer, those are the Yin and Yang masks of our true faces. We both destroy in order to create. I created you… and so you must destroy me. Perfect symmetry.
But Jack, this dance is not quite done. As your progenitor, I have certain responsibilities, certain duties. I have wisdom and experience I must pass on to you. Don’t worry, it won’t be painful; quite the opposite. You’ve gone through the pain already, it’s a part of you forever. It makes you strong. You simply need to learn to direct it properly… not that you haven’t done admirably so far.
The only thing holding you back is that most useless of emotions, guilt. You’ve come so far, Jack; you’re almost there. You don’t need to feel bad about doing what you’re so good at. Let go and a whole world will open up to you. A wonderful, creative world.
Perhaps hearing about my next project might inspire you. I’m rather proud of the concept myself, but I’m sure you could add so much more.
The artist in question is primarily a sculptor, though he works in a variety of materials. His work is good, his technique excellent, but he lacks that depth of feeling a real visionary needs. I think I know how to provide it.
He has a young niece. They visit often, and I believe she has something of a schoolgirl crush on him. Here’s what I’m considering: tie her naked to a bed, and tape firecrackers all over her body.
Inspired, of course, by that brilliant gag you pulled with the sparkler. Placed strategically, I imagine you could selectively destroy quite a bit of the human body before causing death. Urban renewal on a physiological level— “This nipple to be demolished.
Coming soon: a bloody, charred crater.”
And of course, there’s the smell. The scent of exploded firecrackers is a constant in the weeks before and after the end of October, and it’s a smell that lingers; in a closed room, it should be quite pungent. Add a few decorations—a carved pumpkin, some cut-out ghosts and skeletons—and a CD playing that perennial favorite, “The Monster
Mash.”
Voilà!
Still, it’s a bit of a departure from my earlier work. I prefer a quick, clean kill, with the majority of the creative process being expressed after; my work is more postmortem than postmodern. The firecrackers will be unavoidably loud, messy, and unpredictable.
In order to mount a successful piece, I believe a test run is called for.
How about I use Nikki?
It couldn’t be. There was no way.
Jack paced back and forth in his motel room. He had the gun in one hand, and he kept reflexively thumbing the safety off and on.
“How? How?” he mumbled. He caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror as he stalked past the doorway; unshaven, no shirt, eyes bloodshot. He looked liked he belonged under a bridge with a bottle in his hand. He shook the gun at the image and demanded, “How? How, goddammit? How does he
know?”
The wild man in the mirror had no answers.
Nikki hadn’t worked since her “interview” with Richard. She
had
gone to the Stroll and asked a few questions of her own, but none of the girls had seen or talked to him. It seemed that she was the only one he was interested in.
Jack hadn’t responded to the email she’d sent him, but that could mean anything. He might not have checked the account, or maybe he’d decided she was better off without him; she could see Jack doing that.
She didn’t feel safe on the street anymore. It was time to move on, find another city; she should already be gone, but she wasn’t sure where to go. One thing she did know: it wouldn’t be to any of the cities she’d mentioned to Richard.
She ran in the evenings now, her biological clock swinging back to her natural rhythm as a night person. She wasn’t sure what the dawn runs had been all about—something to do with fresh starts and isolation, she supposed. It had been what she needed to do, she’d done it, and now it was over. Running at dusk— the parks and paths filled with strolling couples, dog- walkers, other joggers—was what seemed natural now.
It was almost full dark by the time she got in, out of breath and sweaty. She unlocked the door to her suite, went straight to the fridge and got herself a beer.
The first thing she noticed was that the papers on her kitchen table had been moved.
It was a small thing, but Jack had trained Nikki to notice small things. Someone had been in her place.
She froze, put down her beer, and listened.
Nothing.
She always ran with the .38 in a fanny pack. She took it out now, took the safety off, and moved quickly and quietly from room to room. She searched the closets, the bathroom, beneath the bed. She was alone.
There were other traces that someone had been there—things ever so slightly askew or misplaced. When she returned to the living room, she checked the door and found scratches around the lock.
She frowned, picked up her beer and took a long swallow. Nothing had been taken—even the scratches might be old. Was she just being paranoid?
She searched the place again, looking for a reason. When she was done, she was even less sure than before; maybe she was jumping at ghosts. She sighed, sat down, and finished her beer.
Definitely time to move on,
she thought.
This place is making me squirrelly.
She thought about having another beer, but when she got up to get one, she felt suddenly dizzy. She sat back down.
Whoa. Maybe I need to have something to eat, instead….
Too late, she realized her mistake. She grabbed for the phone, but her arms seemed a million miles long.
Everything went away.
CLOSER: Go ahead and boast. You have no idea what you’re really dealing with.
You don’t impress me, Patron. You’re like all the rest of them, a pathetic loser who tells himself he’s special because he does ugly things and no one can find him. That’s a good description of
allvermin,
don’t you think? I imagine rats and cockroaches and maggots think much the same thing as they wallow in filth: all this richness, just for me. I’m
special.
You’re a fake.
You don’t understand what real torment is. A few eviscerations, a hanging or two, cutting some throats… gory, but over in moments. Do you know what it’s like to torture someone for twelve hours straight? To have them piss and shit themselves in terror and pain? To have grown men beg and plead and cry for their lives as you make them suffer?
I do. And I’m very, very good at it.
You boast about creating artists because you have no talent yourself. You brag about murder because you don’t have the balls to do what I do. Anyone can prey on the innocent; they make easy targets. Me, I hunt predators—and I always get what I go after.
You won’t go after Nikki. I’m telling you this because you already know I’m going to catch you; you practically said so in your last message.
Well, here’s a very simple promise from me: anything you do to her, I’ll do to you.
A reply came back almost immediately:
PATRON: Harsh words, Jack—but heartfelt, I can tell. Still, there’s a certain desperation in them, isn’t there? I hold all the cards here. I mean, you’ve even provided me with the means for a quick and merciful death from you—all I have to do is kill Nikki in the same manner. If, of course, you’re a man of your word.
Sadly, though, that’s not going to happen. Nikki’s death will be long, agonizing, and worst of all—a complete mystery. You’ll never find out exactly what happened to her, Jack. She’ll simply vanish, another hooker swallowed by the street, and her body will never be found. I’ll never tell… unless you make me.
There is an alternative, though, one that could save Nikki a great deal of suffering.
You could kill her yourself.
It’s the only way to protect her, Jack. You didn’t think I knew she even existed, but I know much, much more. I know where she is right now… and it’s not with you.
You don’t need her, Jack. You know that. The reason I kill the people close to artists isn’t just about the fire of inspiration—it’s about the fire of cleansing, of purity. A corpse focuses; a live person distracts.
Do what you have to.
“He’s trying to make me rabbit,” Jack muttered. “Make me panic, lose my head. Have to stay calm. Have to stay
focused.”
He couldn’t lead the Patron to her. Just because the Patron knew about Nikki didn’t mean he knew where she was. But he knew a lot, that much was obvious. He knew about Jack, he knew about Nikki—
He had to find her. He just wasn’t sure why.
“Oh no,” Jack whispered. Suddenly, he understood.
Mentioning Nikki was just a distraction. The Patron wanted to eliminate any humanizing influences from Jack’s life, true—but there was a much more obvious target.
“The smell of firecrackers in October,” Jack murmured. “You don’t get that in the U.S., not until July…. Vancouver. He’s in Vancouver.”
A target the Patron had already revealed he knew about.
Charlie.
Nikki opened her eyes. She wasn’t sure where she was, or what had happened, but she knew it wasn’t good. Her head was muzzy, her vision blurred. Drugged. She’d been drugged.
She was lying on a cot. Wrists and ankles tied to the frame. Overhead, cracked plaster and black Rorschach blots of mildew. She turned her head to one side, and that was enough to make her dizzy and nauseous. She fought it down.
Small room, bare wooden walls, exposed pipes. Looked abandoned, industrial. Against the far wall, another cot, with another person tied to it. Male, white, forties, dressed in white pants and a blue silk shirt. Bloodstained white bandage wrapped around his left hand. Gucci loafers. He wasn’t moving, but she could hear him breathing. Unconscious?
Her head was starting to clear. She did a quick mental inventory of herself: she was in her underwear. All limbs accounted for. Earrings were gone, but her charm bracelet wasn’t. No shoes.
The man on the other cot stirred, moaned.
“Hey,” Nikki hissed. “You awake?”
The man tried to move, discovered he couldn’t. His eyes struggled open. “Whuh?” he said.
“Keep it down,” Nikki said in a low voice. “You all right?”
The man turned his head toward hers. He had a round, fleshy face with a bulbous nose, and he looked terrified. “What—who—who are you?” he croaked.
“My name’s Nikki,” she said. “Who the fuck are
you?”
The man’s face, already pasty, had blanched even whiter at her name. “Oh no,” he said. “I’m sorry, he made me tell him, I—
he cut off my fingers!”
The man started to cry.
Nikki glanced at the man’s bandaged hand. For a fleeting second, she thought he was talking about Jack…but she knew who it had to be. “Shit,” she cursed softly. “C’mon, man, get it together. What’s your name?”
“Charlie. Charlie Holloway…”
Charlie and Nikki were the only two people in the world Jack cared about. He left a hurried email to Nikki, then tried to call Charlie. He got only an answering machine, and hung up.
He paid for a week’s rent in advance, and caught the next flight back to Vancouver; he took the laptop with him, but left the Stalking Ground equipment behind. He tried Charlie’s number several times, from the airport and the plane, but nobody picked up.
He wondered if Charlie’s voice on the machine was the last time he’d ever hear it.
He took a cab from the airport to Charlie’s gallery. The gallery was dark and locked. He banged on the door—no answer.
He went around to the back. The fire escape in the alley was down; Jack looked around, saw no one watching, and climbed up. He tried a window on the second floor—it looked like it was painted shut.
He had no time to be subtle. He smashed the glass with his elbow.
No alarms went off, at least not ones he could hear. He kicked the shards hanging from the frame inside, and climbed in after them. He was in a hallway, with doors on either side and one at the end marked
Office
. He headed for it.
The door was open. Inside, a desk cluttered with papers and stacks of magazines. A couple of plush upholstered chairs along one wall. Three filing cabinets along another, and a separate desk with a computer on it.
There was blood on the keyboard. It was spattered across it in a wide arc, like someone with a nosebleed had done a pirouette.
He was too late.
“Listen to me, Charlie,” Nikki said. She kept her voice quiet but forceful. “If we’re gonna get out of this alive, we have to stay sharp. Focused. You with me?”
“Yes.
Yes,”
Charlie said. “He’s—he’s insane. He’s the one who killed Jack’s family.”
“I know,” Nikki said grimly. “He calls himself the Patron. You and me are next on his list, and it’s
not
gonna be pleasant. How tight are your ropes?”
“Uh—pretty tight.”
“Well, see if you can loosen them. Never know if you don’t try. I’m gonna do the same.”