The Nature of the Beast (16 page)

He pulled up his hood and jogged across the empty highway.

The rain began to fall in earnest now. Coming in ranks, as he trotted along the edge of the highway, the sound of its falling drowned out even thought, making it impossible to focus on anything other than putting one foot in front of the other and the roar of the rain. Took less than a minute to soak him clear through.

The wind rumbled overhead like a train on the L. As he jogged along, he kept peeking out from under the hood, making sure he didn
’
t run himself into the roadside ditch.

A hundred yards up the road, an abandoned track veered off at angle. A pair of ancient ruts overgrown chest high…except where the grass had been bent over by the recent passage of small feet. The rain redoubled its efforts. Nothing existed but the rising roar of the wind and rain. He picked up his pace.

29

“Don’t talk to me about the DNA,” Jackson Craig snapped. “That’s hours away. I need to know the victim’s name and more specifically what he was driving when he arrived here this morning, and I need to know now.”

“With the fingers missing it’s likely to take some time sir,” the nearest medical technician said.

Jackson Craig turned away in frustration. No one had been prepared for the blood bath they found when they’d backed the Browning SUV out of the parking spot. What seemed like gallons of blood lay in dark pools on the asphalt. The victim had been stabbed fifty-seven times in the chest and another dozen in the area of his crotch. Which happened first was anybody’s guess. He’d bled to death in less time than it took to go through his pockets.

According to Forensics, the removal of the victim’s fingers had been post mortem. Small blessings, Craig supposed.

In his mind’s eye, Craig could visualize the murder. Their kidnapper had simply driven around until he spotted someone in the process of parking a car. He’d pulled up behind the victim’s vehicle, blocking him in, gotten out, approached the poor fellow on some pretense or other, killed and mutilated him right there on the spot and then covered the body with Gil’s SUV. His grisly handiwork finished, he and Michael had then driven off in the victim’s car.

Childishly simple but neat as could be. Like ‘the bomb.’ The two storage containers Gil and Emelda used to transport their food and clothes and some wire he found in the car’s tool compartment. Adapt and survive. That’s what he did.

Craig watched as the family SUV was winched onto the bed of the tow truck. By the time they got everything chained up and bolted down, he’d wandered down row Sixteen D, had located his cel phone somewhere deep in his clothing and speed-dialed a familiar number. “Tell him it’s Jackson Craig,” he told the operator.

“Jack.” Bobby Duggan joined him on the circuit thirty seconds later.

“We need to go public with this thing Bobby.”

Bobby cleared his throat and chuckled. “What sort of public did you have in mind Jack?” The drawl was thick and syrupy enough to double as flypaper.

“I want a national Amber Alert on Michael Browning and an appeal for assistance through the media. We need the public’s help on this thing, Bobby. Right now. Today. I need everybody in America looking for this guy. Otherwise, I’m not certain we can pull this off.”

“That, my friend, as you very well know, is a rather sticky wicket,” Bobby said. He went on for a full minute and a half about the system and all the egos and red tape connected with declassifying something, how legacies were involved here.

“Is that a no?” Craig asked when Duggan finished.

“That’s an ‘I don’t get to make those kinds of decisions’,” Bobby said. “I’ll be happy to inquire through channels on your behalf however.”

It took a great deal of self-restraint for Jackson Craig to remain civil. The best he could manage was to clamp his jaw closed and leave it that way.

The awkwardness of the moment was broken by Audrey Williams, who, at that moment, was jogging his way, waving a hand to attract his attention. He’d never seen her quite this excited and few intrusions had ever been more welcome.

“Something’s come up,” Craig said into the mouthpiece. The connection broke.

Audrey skidded to a stop. “Investigations got us a name,” she said. “Victor Abbruzio. Forty-seven years old. Taking the red eye to Omaha to visit his son and daughter-in-law.” He heard Audrey draw a long breath. “Mr. Abbruzio was on his way to see his new granddaughter for the first time,” she said. Her face was somber. Putting a name on a victim instantly humanized him, making his untimely demise all the more senseless and sad.

She anticipated the next query. “The shoes,” she said. “Apparently the victim had unusually large feet. Quadruple EEEE’s something like that. Only sold locally in a couple specialty stores. The first clerk Investigations showed the post mortem photo to lost his lunch and keeled over. Had the victim’s phone number and everything.”

“The clerk’s certain?”

“Investigations called the wife. The wife says Mr. Abbruzio bumped his head in the attic the other day and was wearing a Band-Aid to cover the cut.” She read from her notebook. “A two thousand and eight Lexus LS. Amber Pearl in color. “ She read the Colorado tag number.

“Put it out as armed and dangerous,” Craig said. “Killing people seems to be his primary problem-solving technique.”

“He really likes using a knife,” Audrey said. “Enjoys penetrating things. The literature says he’s probably impotent. Between twenty and forty years old. White. Single. Lives alone. Brushes his teeth. Pays his bills. Probably never been involved in a successful relationship of any kind.”

Craig nodded. “Makes complete sense,” he said.

“This is the angry one,” Audrey went on. “The one Harry Joyce made. The kind of anger that’s born out of frustration, out of feeling like you have no control over anything, that you’re just a pawn in somebody else’s game of chess.” Audrey kept talking. “This isn’t a BTK kind of guy. No mild-mannered, church-going dog catcher during the day and psychotic torturer by night. This guy’s not like that. He doesn’t have a job. Doesn’t have friends. He’s holding on by his fingernails.”

“We need to push him over the edge,” Craig said.

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Audrey said. “Most killers are narcissistic. They’re able to do what they do because they’re unable to imagine the pain and suffering of others. They’re chameleons. They change their personality to meet individual situations. This guy’s not like that. He hates himself.” She stepped closer to Jackson Craig and lowered her voice. “Abruzzio was stabbed nearly
seventy
times. Once he starts he can’t stop himself. Do you have any idea how long it takes to stab someone that many times? How much anger you have to have bottled up inside to do something like that?”

From her peripheral vision she saw Special Agent Owen Hirt approaching from the direction of the main terminal. Since the Denver office had arrived on the scene four hours ago, Hirt had, on several occasions, unsuccessfully tried to use Audrey as a gofer. The tension between them was palpable. She snapped her notebook shut. “I’ll see if forensics has come up with anything new,” she said and sauntered off.

Hirt was their liaison with the Denver Secret Service Field Office. He was supervising the door to door aspect of the investigation. His people had showed the victim’s photo to every disgruntled passenger and anxious airline employee. Nobody recognized the man in the photo. His people were also charged with working the victim’s clothes. This was going to count as a serious feather in his Secret Service cap.

“Nice work,” Craig said. “I was beginning to despair.”

“We got lucky,” Hirt scoffed. “Guy had feet like snowshoes.”

“Always take credit for good fortune,” Craig advised.

“Your unsub disabled the car’s ONSTAR system before driving off, so that’s not going to be of any help, but Telemetry is working the cell phone as we speak,” Hirt said.

“What cell phone?”

“The one we
didn
’
t
find on the victim’s body.”

“You’re sure he had one?”

“The wife says he keeps it in his briefcase, probably still in the trunk of the car with the rest of his luggage.”

As if to punctuate the point, Hirt’s beeper went off. He found his phone and made a call. Mostly he listened. He thanked the caller and broke the connection.

“Mr. Abruzzio’s phone is currently in Sterling, South Dakota.” He read a set of GPS coordinates out loud. “I’ll arrange transport and ground assistance. Apparently the local sheriff’s stretched a little thin.”

__

“
Wet,
”
he shouted above the rush of the river.

The boy didn
’
t answer. He stood on the river bank with his dark hair plastered to his skull and big drops falling from the tip of his nose. His lips were blue.

“
We best go,
”
he said, extending a hand.

The boy
’
s eyes darted left and right, checking for exits like a cornered animal.

With his hand still extended, he closed the distance between them in several leisurely, non-threatening strides.

The panic in the kid
’
s eyes glowed in the gloom. The boy tried to maintain his distance, moving back toward the river, slipping on the slimy stones, putting one foot into the storm-swollen water.

“
Easy now,
”
he said to the boy.

He moved forward again, hands in his jacket pockets now.
“
Come on. Let
’
s go. It
’
s nice and warm in the car.
”

The kid shook his head and scowled.

“
Come on,
”
he repeated.

“
No,
”
the boy said.
“
I don
’
t like you.
”

“
Me?
”
he said disbelievingly.

“
I want to go home,
”
the boy said.

“
Yeah,
”
was all he could think of.

The kid didn
’
t believe a word of it. He took another backward step, stumbled again and put a hand on the riverbank to steady himself.

Overhead, the wind rushed like a freeway. All around them, the stunted oaks lurched this way and that in the swirl of the storm.

“
Nothing to be scared of,
”
he assured, moving forward quickly now, closing the space between them in three long bounds. The boy feinted right and then dodged the other way, tiptoeing downstream along the edge of the bank, one foot in the swift brown water, his hands clutching at the riverbank vegetation as he slid downstream .

He watched impassively as the boy lost his purchase on the bushes, slipped on the stones and suddenly disappeared beneath the water. For a brief moment, he wondered if it was worth the trouble. If perhaps he couldn
’
t carry on as he was and somehow get through the rest of his life.

Then he saw the boy come up for air, twenty yards downstream, his eyes as big as pizzas, flapping his arms like a wounded bird. Without willing it so, he began to run along the riverbank.
“
Let it go,
”
a voice screamed over and over in his head. He continued to run. Next thing he knew he was swimming.

30

“Could get a little rough here in a minute,” the pilot’s voice crackled through their headsets. “You might want to hang on,” he suggested.

Audrey Williams swallowed twice and shot an apprehensive glance Jackson Craig’s way. “Is he kidding?” she asked.

For the past twenty-five minutes, as they’d been winging their way to Sterling, South Dakota, their Bell 429 helicopter had been held hostage by the storm, swerving wildly, dropping what seemed several stories at a time, dodging this way and that as it fought for traction in the angry air. As far as Audrey was concerned, things were already way past ‘a little rough.’

“Instruments are only accurate to a couple of feet,” Craig said evenly. “He’s going in blind.” He looked around. “I assure you, the crew doesn’t want to die any more than we do.” He looked over at Audrey. “At least that’s what I tell myself,” he said.

“Oh…don’t I feel better now?” Audrey groused.

The passenger compartment shuddered as the helicopter swirled downward. The half dozen uniformed Secret Service personnel were throwing glances at one another and hanging on tight as they spiraled through the storm. Even Craig with that smooth manner of his…even
he
gripped his padded arm rests with white-knuckled fervor. For whatever reason, Audrey was cheered by the sight.

They touched the ground, bounced hard and then touched down again. It seemed as if everyone was holding his breath. The rotors began to whine as they slowed. The aircraft settled onto its springs. The cabin lights blinked on. Everybody exhaled and looked around, silently checking one another for missing body parts.

Craig and Williams followed the uniformed officers out the exit door. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. The breeze seemed to come from every direction at once, carrying with it the smell of damp straw, everyone squinting and bending double as they duck-walked their way over the uneven ground, hunched low despite the fact that the rotors had ceased rotating.

The makeshift landing zone was illuminated by two sets of headlights, a pair of Simmons County police cruisers playing
X marks the spot
out into the middle of a vast patch of high desert. The bubbling of percolating water filled the air as Audrey straightened up and looked around. Dark was settling over the valley floor. She checked her watch.