The Closer (16 page)
Authors: Donn Cortez
Of course, he felt a bit silly now. Unless the bin the Closer had just rolled inside was loaded with sophisticated equipment, Stoltz’s precautions had been completely unnecessary….
Stoltz eased up the trunk lid of the car where he’d hidden and climbed out. He’d parked directly opposite the dump site; only a few feet separated him from the open back of the truck. He slipped his safety goggles down over his eyes. Gun in hand, he crept up the ramp.
“Don’t move,” Jack said. The figure inside the bin was wearing some kind of hood—Jack couldn’t see his face. “Raise your hands, slowly.”
No response. Was it Road Rage—or a body?
“Stand up!” Jack snapped.
The figure didn’t twitch. Jack grabbed the hood and yanked it back.
“Dummy,” Jack whispered.
He whirled around. The tarp had fallen back into place when he’d stepped past it.
He aimed at its center. Felt the truck shift ever so slightly as weight was added to it.
Road Rage pointed his gun with its home-made silencer at the tarp. The Closer should be standing right about there….
“Ahem.”
He looked down. The lid of the bin the Closer had brought with him was ajar, and the muzzle of a gun poked out. Behind it was a pair of very blue, very cold eyes.
“The fuck is that—a potato?” Nikki said.
INTERLUDE
Dear Electra:
You’ll never believe it. Today I got to drive!
And before you ask—yes, it was Uncle Rick who let me. When the weather’s bad, he drives a car instead of his motorcycle. His car is pretty old and beat-up—it’s a junky-looking Toyota from twenty years ago—but it gets him around. I was with him today, “just hanging out,” as he says, and he asked if I wanted to go for a drive out to Cloverdale to get some art supplies. Now, with Uncle Rick, “art supplies” could be anything from a stuffed moose to funhouse mirrors, so of course I said yes.
He seemed a little down when he picked me up. Turns out he had a fight with his girlfriend last night—I didn’t even know he had one! She’s some waitress he’s been seeing for the last month, apparently. He said the fight was because he was spending too much time on his art. I told him, “If she doesn’t understand how important your art is to you, she doesn’t deserve to be with you.” I think that cheered him up.
The shopping part was pretty cool—he was picking up an old saddle he saw in the Buy and Sell. We went to this funky old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, and bought it from this guy who looked like he was around a hundred and fifty. He had crazy white hair like a mad scientist, and said “Praise Jesus!” about every three sentences. He hauled the saddle out of this barn almost as old as
he was; there weren’t any horses or cattle living in the place, just some chickens. The barn was really cool—it was all gray and weather-beaten, and sunlight shone through about a zillion gaps in the walls. It reminded me of Uncle Rick’s loft.
At first I didn’t get why Uncle Rick wanted the saddle. The thing was really beat up—the leather was cracked and stained and the pommel was broken. There was no way you could ever use it again. He gave the guy fifty bucks, and put it in the trunk.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Uncle Rick said on the ride back.
“Thinking about the saddle,” I said. “I think I get it.”
“Enlighten me,” Uncle Rick said. He likes to say that.
“Well, at first I thought it was just a piece of junk. Old things can be cool—but it’s not just old, it’s
broken
. But then I started thinking about the barn.”
“Yeah? What about it?” He gave me this little smile that told me I was on the right track.
“Well, the barn is broken, too. It’s barely standing. I’m sure the roof leaks in a million places.”
“But?”
“But the barn is
cool.
I really liked it. And I think I figured out why.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Because it’s barely standing—but it is standing.”
Uncle Rick’s smile got bigger. Sigh. “Bingo,” he said.
“It’s like the building has gone through all this stuff, and it’s managed to survive. It’s still there. Kind of like that old guy, too, I guess.”
“That’s right. And all that history—everything they went through—is still there, too. It’s an artist’s job to see that, and try to bring it out in the light where everyone else can see it.”
“Really? I thought an artist’s job was to ‘create his own language and teach it to others.’”
“You’re a brat. And if you’re gonna quote me to me, try not to make me sound so pompous.”
“Or what?”
“Or I won’t teach you how to drive.”
Okay, I’m gonna stop writing down actual dialogue now, ’cause there was much girlish squealing. Followed by teasing, mock threats, begging, and finally blood oaths to not tell my parents.
We went down this side road with no traffic, and then he pulled over. We switched places. I thought it was going to be easy, Electra, but I was in for a surprise. See, Uncle Rick drives a standard—for those of you who are uninformed, that means there’s a
whole other pedal
you have to operate called the clutch.
The Clutch of Death, I call it. I swear, who
designed
something like that? “Y’know, Al, there just aren’t enough pedals in this thing. We should add another one, right there.”
“Good idea, Ralph. That whole left foot just isn’t being properly exercised. Let’s add a spring to it, too.”
“Right. Can’t make it too simple, though.”
“No, of course not. Let’s hook it up so you have to let it out while you press down on the gas. That should confuse everyone.”
“Not good enough, Al. Let’s make the whole
thing stall if you don’t do it right, and throw in a gearshift.”
“Brilliant, Ralph.”
The first ten times I tried to do it, the whole car lurched and died. Fortunately, Uncle Rick is both smart and patient—know what he said before we started, Electra?
I DO NOT CURRENTLY POSSESS THAT INFORMATION.
He said, “The first ten times you try to do this, the whole car is going to lurch and die.” That’s what he said.
HOW PERCEPTIVE.
I know. But I finally got the hang of it, Electra. I really did! I actually learned how to shift and everything. Okay, I only got as far as second gear, but that’s still pretty good.
I’M SURE MACHINES EVERYWHERE ARE IMPRESSED.
Probably not. But I don’t care.
Uncle Rick was.
The woman in the bin stood up. Stoltz fired.
The potato exploded like a bomb, chunks spraying everywhere. Stoltz was ready for it, not even flinching as a piece ricocheted off his goggles. His shot went through the tarp, and he could tell from the sound on the other side he’d scored a hit.
The woman had jerked backward when the potato blew up. Off balance, she knocked over the bin with her still in it.
Stoltz stepped on her outstretched arm, pinning her wrist beneath his foot. She still had the gun, but she couldn’t aim it. Coolly, he pointed his own weapon at her. “Please,” he said. “Relax your grip. It’s over….”
Over.
Over.
“…roll him over.”
Woman’s voice. What?
“Can’t believe he fainted.”
Who’s that? Is that—no. Oh, no. No no no—
“—no chance at all, my dear,” Stoltz said. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
Tied and helpless, all the woman could do was snarl at him. “Just wait until the Closer gets through with you,” she hissed.
“Ah, but it’s he who is through,” Stoltz said. He pulled aside the tarp, revealing a handsome, muscular man with a blond crewcut and a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. “A pity he wasn’t quite as quick a shot as he should—”
“—should be no problem, unless he throws up.”
Can’t move. Can’t see. Gagged. They’re lifting me up. Moving me where?
Someplace private.
“No one will disturb us here,” he said. She was lovely, even with bits of potato stuck to her face.
“I’m so glad you killed him,” she said. “He made me do those things. I never wanted to be with him.” She slipped both straps of the evening gown off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. Her breasts had five nipples.
Floor lurching, bumping. In a vehicle.
“It’s just the tide,” he whispered in her ear as they danced on the deck of the ship. “The lift and fall of the waves. Nothing to worry about.”
She held him tighter and whispered back. “How long to get his password?”
“What?”
“Depends. If he goes catatonic, never.”
No. No. Nononononononononono…
“I know who you are.”
“Please. Please don’t hurt me.”
“I know who you are.”
“I
don’t
know who you are. I don’t want to, okay? Just let me go.”
“I have some questions.”
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know, just don’t hurt me, okay? Please—”
“What’s your password to the Stalking Ground?”
“The what? I don’t know what you’re talking— AAAAAAAH!”
“I know you don’t want to betray them. But it’s too late for that.”
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck. My girlfriend wrote down your license plate, she’ll call the cops, don’t do this. C’mon, I’ll give you a nice blow job, you can do anything you want, just please don’t kill me. I’m only twenty, oh Jesus—”
“Your name is Djinn-X. You are the webmaster. I’m going to do terrible, terrible things to you. Would you like a little glimpse into the future? Here, look at this picture.”
“Oh God. That’s not real, that’s not real—”
“Not real? It’s a masterpiece, my dear girl. And I’m going to do to you exactly what he did to this poor fellow. It might seem a little derivative—but then, he’s the artist, not I. I’m just his Patron….”
“I know who you are.”
Stoltz opened his eyes. He was tied to a chair in the center of a room with walls made of slick black plastic. The only other furniture was a table with a lamp and a laptop. A man stood there, his face hidden by shadow.
He shut his eyes.
The dungeon was made of damp, cold stone, but he would find a way to escape. They didn’t know about the five blasting caps hidden in his—
A hand cracked across his face. His eyes snapped open.
“No. I’m not going to let you do that,” the Closer said. “This is reality. This is not going to go away. If you shut your eyes again, I’ll remove one of them.”
“What—what do you want?” Stoltz managed.
“Your password to the Stalking Ground.”
“It’s Stoltz007,” he blurted out. “Please. It’s Stoltz007.”
The Closer stared at him for a second without a word. “I almost believe you,” he said. “But I know you must have programmed in an erase sequence. I have to assume that was it.”
Stoltz swallowed. A pit opened up in his stomach, a vast yawning well dropping away to infinity. He realized, with a pure and sudden clarity, the immense mistake he had just made.
“The erase code is Blofeld2,” he said. “But you don’t believe me, of course. And there’s only one way you’ll know for sure.”
“Actually, there are two. I can gamble, and try what you just told me—or I can be sure beforehand.”
“Yes,” Stoltz said. “I understand.”
“Now,” the Closer said. “Let’s start at the beginning….”
ROAD RAGE: Gentlemen, a celebration is in order.
The deed is done.
GOURMET: Were there any problems?
ROAD RAGE: None to speak of. The trap worked perfectly. He showed up precisely at noon, and was dead before 12:01. The expression on his face
when he opened the bin lid to find me inside was priceless; I wish I’d thought to rig a camera to capture it.
PATRON: You don’t have pictures?
ROAD RAGE: Of course I have pictures—but only of his corpse. And I’m afraid you’ll have to wait to admire them, as my scanner is being repaired.
GOURMET: Tell us about him.
ROAD RAGE: He had no ID on him, so I can’t give you a name. Caucasian, scrawny build, mid-forties.
Brown hair, somewhat froggy-looking face.
Unremarkable, really.
PATRON: A shame you couldn’t have done to him what he did to us. There was much The Pack could have learned.
ROAD RAGE: I’m afraid that sort of thing really isn’t my style. He was a worthy opponent—he deserved a swift death.
GOURMET: He’s been neutralized. That’s all that matters.
PATRON: Absolutely. This is a tremendous victory for the entire Pack—well done, Road Rage.
GOURMET: Yes. Excellent work.
ROAD RAGE: Not at all. Glad to be of service.
PATRON: I’m sure Djinn-X would offer his congratulations as well. Odd that he isn’t online— I assumed he’d be as eager as the rest of us for results.
ROAD RAGE: Yes, that is strange. Perhaps he’s occupied with work.
“I told you I was telling the truth,” Stoltz whimpered. “I told you. I told you.”
It was bound to happen sooner or later,
Jack thought.
A killer with no resistance at all. One so terrified of pain he surrenders everything he knows immediately.
The horrible thing was, it made no difference.
Jack couldn’t trust his answers. No matter how much Stoltz pleaded and sobbed and screamed, Jack had to be sure. Predators like him were masters of deception, their lives—sometimes their entire personalities—an elaborate falsehood. Even if he told the truth nine times in a row, there was no guarantee the tenth wasn’t a lie. And if he thought Jack felt sorry for him, even for a second, he would try to twist that to his advantage.
Still, the interrogation wasn’t long. All but one of Stoltz’s kills were public knowledge; what he mainly supplied Jack with were the details of what had angered him in the first place. It was a sad list of petty annoyances, ranging from people cursing at him to someone who failed to signal a lane change.
“And the prostitute you killed for your initiation?” Jack asked. “What driving infraction did she commit?”
“I’m sorry for that one, I really am,” Stoltz sobbed. “But it was the only way. The only way they’d let me join.”
“Why did you? None of them kill for the same reasons you do. Why would you
want
to be a member of The Pack?”
Stoltz’s sobbing slowed and stopped. Jack let him catch his breath.
“When you were younger, did you know what you wanted to do with your life?” Stoltz managed.
Jack thought back to the first time he’d made something he thought of as art. “Yes,” he answered.
“Well, I never did. I never had any specific plan or purpose. That’s what most people are like, you know.”
Jack said nothing.
“My job, my life—it just sort of
happened
to me. And I realized one day that I was insignificant, that nothing I did really mattered. That I would never accomplish anything important. It felt like dying, to realize that.”
“So others died instead.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like that! The first one, I was just going to scare him. Give him a good talking to. But—but he
laughed
at me.”
“So you killed him. And to show your remorse, you nailed his driver’s license to his forehead.”
“He didn’t deserve that license! I had to show people
why
he’d been killed, don’t you see? There had to be a
point.
I couldn’t have people thinking I was just some random
criminal.”
“Ah. Of course not. You were
special,
weren’t you?”
Stoltz looked up. For the first time, there was something besides fear in his voice. “I was
never
anything special,” he said. “Just another face in the crowd. But when I started my work, all that changed. I made a
difference.
I made the world a
better place.”
“And the other members of The Pack? Do they make the world a better place?”
“They—they’re my friends. I don’t have many friends.”
“So you just ignore the fact that they murder people?”
“Friendship is a contract,” Stoltz said stiffly. “You agree to ignore the other person’s faults, and they agree to ignore yours. Friends don’t judge each other.”
“No, you just judge strangers—and then kill them. You really think what those six people did was so bad that eliminating them would change anything?”
“But it did. Not because they were gone, but because everyone knew
why.
And people’s behavior
changed.”
“Yes,” Jack said softly. “Yes, it did. But not in the way you wanted. You didn’t make anyone more polite—you just made them
afraid.
There’s nothing noble or enlightening about that.”
Jack leaned forward, his face intent. “You want to know where you had the biggest effect? On the families of your victims. Innocents. Do a father’s bad driving habits mean his children should suffer, too? Or his wife?”
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t
care
about the victims you left behind. The survivors.
But I do.”
Suddenly, there was a thin steel rod in Jack’s hand. A car antenna.
“There are three stages victim-survivors usually go through,” Jack said. “The first one is
impact.”
He whipped the antenna across Stoltz’s face. Stoltz screamed.
“A victim in this stage is in shock. He may be unable to concentrate, or feel distanced from his own emotions. He may experience despair, horror, or denial.”
He struck again, a vicious backhand across Stoltz’s forehead. Stoltz cried out, “Don’t!”
“The next stage is
recoil
. The victim feels many things—anger, depression, rejection, guilt. And, of course, loss—loss of identity, loss of self-respect, loss of control. Unpredictable mood
swings—”
Another strike.
And another.
And another.
“Oh God, please don’t, why are you doing this
why—”
“Finally, there’s
resolution.
The victim assimilates his pain. He accepts that it will never, ever go away— that it is
part
of him, now. It’s a weight he must carry for the rest of his life. The weight never decreases, but the muscles that support it can grow stronger.”
“What do you want? I told you everything, please don’t hurt me anymore—”
“No two victim-survivors are the same. Each person experiences the three stages differently. But there is one constant each and every one shares—do you know what that is?”
“No. No. Please, I don’t know—”
“They want to know about the end. No matter how horrific, how wrenching, they need to know how the person they loved so much died. They need
details.
They need them so they can re-create the last moments of that person’s life in their head, because it’s the only substitute they’ll ever have for what they truly want—to be there. To say good-bye.”
Jack paused, looked down at the antenna in his hand. Blood on chrome glinted a deep ruby in the glare from the lamp, sliding down the silver rod in discrete droplets.
“I can’t give them that. But I
can
give them the details. I can give them facts, if not understanding.”
“Please,” Stoltz moaned. “I’ve told you everything,
everything—”
Jack put down the antenna. He picked up a length of cord and wrapped one end around his fist, then did the same with the other end. He pulled the garrote taut between his hands.
“I know,” he said.
Nikki sat in the back booth of the coffee shop and studied the objects in front of her.
There were six of them lined up on the table. She’d taken them out of a small plastic Baggie, using a napkin to make sure she didn’t actually come into physical contact with them. She knew they’d be exhaustively analyzed by the police.
Trophy collection was common among serial killers. If they kept body parts of their victims, Jack left those for the police—but sometimes, what was taken was small and easily missed. In that case, he sent Nikki to get them, labeled each item and left them with the body. At first Nikki thought it was too big a risk to take for something so inconsequential, but she quickly changed her mind. Keeping a trophy might not seem like much compared to rape and murder, but the violation was an intimate one—stealing a tiny bit of some- one’s life to help you relive their murder. If the object was innocuous enough, the killer might even be able to hang on to it after being arrested; she wondered how many murderers in prison carried a good-luck charm.