Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (67 page)

On the fourth evening he’d crept up the old wooden steps. Wincing with each creak. Holding his breath. Wondering if anyone was watching. Courage had carried him to within a few feet before overwhelming fear had propelled him back into the woods.

On the fifth evening he’d tied a handkerchief over his mouth and nose. Then hauled her corpse off the swing. Pulse twanging like an elastic band in his throat. He’d forced her limbs flat against the decking by kneeling on the joints until they’d crumbled. Laid her out in the death pose he’d seen on TV: arms folded across the chest, toes angled skywards, eyelids drawn shut.

When he’d returned the sixth day he’d brought roses plucked from his grandmother’s garden. Sprinkled petals around the doughy body, like they did in the movies. Brushed straggly hair out of her puffy face. Then shied away as maggots had tumbled from the black pit of her mouth.

On his seventh visit he’d brought something to fix her ghastly grin. He’d wafted away the flies. Flicked away maggots. Held his breath against the terrible smell while he’d daubed her cardboard lips with glue. Forced her jaws together until they’d stuck. Scrawled a rough cross on her dewy brow. Then stood back and mouthed a quiet prayer. It had only seemed right.

That night, the seventh night, everything was perfect.

Through no fault of his own he hadn’t returned to the shack in the woods for over a week. When he had he’d found the old woman gone. Just a dark stain on the splintered boards where she’d lain.

Had she been taken by the angels? he’d wondered.

Then he’d noticed the tracks leading into the woods.

He’d followed them. Stealthily as a predator. Curious at first. Then with a ball of anger rolling round his belly. Coyote cubs were feeding hungrily on the old woman’s remains. Ripping her rotting flesh into leathery strips and cracking soft bones with needle teeth.

He’d wrung every one of their necks with his bare hands.

When the mother had returned and howled for her loss he’d let her pain last awhile before clubbing her bitch head to pulp with a stone.

190

^{___________________________}

By midday, my arrest and subsequent detainment was all over the TV news and Internet feeds. Top billing: Celebrity Cop arrested for the murder of a prominent, up-and-coming news reporter. Bludgeoned to death by the very person she had raised doubts about live on air. Of course, it was so much horse manure. But sometimes if enough is thrown, some of it sticks.

Speculation about my intent, motive and possible role in
The Undertaker
killings was rife.

If I didn’t get off the hook soon I’d have no character left to assassinate.

Copies of our case notes arrived, together with a shiny new laptop. I arranged the files and photos out on the large floor space like a mosaic, in crime scene order, stood back, rolled up sleeves and set to.

The Feds had amassed a fair wealth of information in the short space of time they’d run with the investigation. I counted five boxes of files, a skyscraper stack of eight-by-tens, plus comprehensive background histories on each victim. There were even IRS records and bank transaction particulars for Harland Laboratories.

I was in business.

I thought about Candlewood lying in his hospital bed under armed guard, hooked up to his machines, with a touch-and-go prognosis. No one was interested in rationalizing how Candlewood could be
The Undertaker
. No one was interesting in theorizing his motive. As far as the Feds were concerned, Candlewood was
The Undertaker
. Fuller had his prize pig. Game over.

But I knew otherwise.

Where did that leave me?

Chasing another phantom.

I put on reading glasses and opened up the hefty FBI dossier on Harland Laboratories.

Aside from substantial IRS receipts, most of the information turned out to be technical literature: research papers, fact sheets, charts, projections, graphs, statistics – jargon about as legible as Mandarin.

I phoned Room Service and had them deliver a large pot of coffee to keep me ticking over.

About ten minutes later, I came across a copy of the company’s latest project and experienced what some people call a
goosy
moment:

In the fall of last year, Harland Laboratories had won a prestigious federal contract to synthesize and develop a new super-vaccine capable of warding off virtually every childhood disease known to man. What separated this new super-vaccine from its current competitors was the fact it could be administered to new born babies. It was a breakthrough. Conservative estimates had the super-vaccine saving thousands of young lives every year, here in the States, with millions more worldwide. The sheer scale of the undertaking had forced Harland Labs to source-out work to their newly-acquired production facilities in California and Florida. As commissions went, it was titanic. Enough to make Harland Labs a very tempting buy for some of the bigger pharmaceutical boys having missed out on the lucrative deal.

The project’s working title was: ‘
Pocketful of Posies’
.

It was like I’d won the Nevada sweepstakes.

191

^{___________________________}

Strange how broken links can suddenly come together to form a chain. I thought about Jamie’s text message. Thought about the stylized embroidering on
The Undertaker’s
cap. Thought about the rings of roses. The ash crosses. Thought about all the syringes. Thought about Luke Chapter’s cheapskate punch line.

If Harland Labs was the connection, then their current project had to be the catalyst. That left me wondering about a motive.

I glanced at the annual report in my hands. Followed my gut instinct to the page listing financial backers. Other than the Candlewood family, Harland Labs had a handful of fiscal investors scattered across the country. One or two distinguished names I’d seen with thumbs in other people’s pies. Celebrities trying to make good. One that instantly leapt up off the page and punched me in the gut:

Marlene van den Berg
.

Spurred on, I delved deeper. Came across a list of acclaimed consultants having donated their brains to the
‘Pocketful of Posies’
project – if only figuratively. Most were esteemed professors in various biology-related fields belonging to colleges and universities across the US. One was based at the USC in Los Angeles. His name was
Professor J. Samuels, PhD
.

Knock out.

Simple as that. Three minutes’ worth of reading and I’d connected all the dots. No one in the FBI had even bothered to scratch deeper than the surface.

I stripped off the readers and rubbed the bridge of my nose.

The Undertaker
had been eliminating everyone directly involved with the super-vaccine project. Add that to the killer’s prophecy of a future catastrophe and
hey presto
we had ourselves a motive.

Okay, so it sounded like yet more fodder from a science fiction movie. But it was the only theory which fit the facts perfectly:

The Undertaker
believed the project to be flawed. Instead of saving thousands of lives, it would take them. In order to prevent mass murder by Harland Labs, he was systematically killing everyone with a vested interest in seeing the project to its fruition.

It suddenly occurred to me that if
The Undertaker
could really see the future then he’d be doing the nation an enormous service. And if we stopped him – if
I
stopped him – I’d be signing the death warrant on thousands of baby lives.

But it was all nonsense. Wasn’t it?
The Undertaker
was delusional. All serial killers are. I didn’t believe he could prophesize for one second. Would you? But he believed it. I couldn’t ignore that. It was his motive.

If you could save a million lives by taking one … would you?

192

^{___________________________}

I called Sonny from my swanky prison cell. Told her the news. Then asked whether she’d cleared my name yet.

‘Still working on it.’ She said. ‘I’ve got men canvassing the Kellerman neighborhood – seeing if anyone saw a man fitting the killer’s description loitering about, Friday.’

‘And?’

‘And so far we’ve found a further two eyewitnesses who put you at the scene.’

‘Great.’

Our unofficial investigation was making the FBI’s case against me even stronger.

‘What else, Sonny?’

‘Kellerman’s phone records show she had calls from the same disposable cell number, starting last week. Several Friday.’

‘You got that information fast.’

‘Friends in high places. It’s the same number the FBI logged when the killer called you, back at Treasure Island.’

Encouraging. We were getting somewhere.

‘Do we know what the Feds have in store for me?’

‘They’re doing everything by the book. Amassing enough evidence to make their case against you rock-solid before they move you someplace more secure. It wouldn’t surprise me if they have you incarcerated by the end of the day. Luckily for us it’s Sunday. All the High Court Justices are out playing golf. Or conveniently not answering their phones.’

‘Thanks, Sonny.’

‘Sure thing. What are friends for? I’ll keep you posted if anything else turns up.’

I spent the next couple of hours on the Internet. Referencing the Harland Labs annual report. Running down lists of names connected with their current project. I had no idea how many were on
The Undertaker’s
private hit list. I couldn’t take the chance of missing any. His priority system was anyone’s guess. All told, I gathered more than a hundred candidates. Spread far and wide. Emailed as many as I could, either through company mailboxes or private accounts. Warned them about their link to the killer and to be extra vigilant of their own safety over the coming days or weeks until we made an arrest. Then I emailed the list through to Jan and Fred back at Central. Asked them to keep on top of it. It was the best I could do – for now.

At three o’clock there was a knock at the door.

I padded across the thick carpeting and opened up.