The Closer (17 page)

The first item was a small plastic tag shaped like a number one. Printed on it were the words, You’re Number 1 with Us! and the logo of a car dealership.

The second was a small, brightly colored plastic frog. Nikki looked at it for a second, then took a pair of red gloves out of her purse and pulled them on. They were Italian leather, smooth and thin and form- fitting. She had to push her charm bracelet up her arm to get the right one all the way on, though the loop of chain wouldn’t go too far; it was made of tempered steel, welded on, and had very little give.

She picked up the frog and looked closely at it. It was bright orange and blue; Nikki wondered if there actually was a frog like this, or if the original owner had painted it for their own reasons.

She put it down and picked up the third object, a Pez dispenser with a Batman head on it. She popped a little candy tablet into her hand, then put it in her mouth. Cherry. She briefly worried that Stoltz might have done something crazy like coating the candy with cyanide—Jack said he seemed to have some kind of secret agent fixation—but nothing happened.

The fourth was a piece of a jigsaw puzzle, heavily laminated. A metal grommet was punched into the corner of the plastic, probably to attach it to a key chain. There was no telling what the larger picture had been of; it was simply a splash of color and a few lines. Again, Nikki didn’t know if the puzzle piece had been laminated by Stoltz or his victim. Either way, it would have been done to make the piece last, so the owner could reach into his pocket and touch the smooth plastic next to his keys, a reminder of—what? A puzzle solved—or a life ended?

Maybe there wasn’t any difference.

The fifth was a Smurf, a little figure made of blue plastic. It was heavily scuffed, the painted eyes scratched and faded; someone had been carrying it around for a very long time. A gift from a child?

The last item was a small aluminum plate, embossed with a serial number and the words City of Portland. A dog tag.

She squinted at it, turned it over. On the back was engraved the word Rosie.

She tried to imagine Stoltz carrying the tag around with him, fondling it in moments of stress. Reliving his crime, fantasizing about the next one. But she didn’t have Jack’s gift of seeing things from the killer’s perspective—all she kept coming up with were images of dogs. Big ones, small ones, barking and jumping and running around. She wondered what kind of dog Rosie had been, and how long ago she had died.

She ran a finger over the dense cluster of charms on her bracelet, hearing their familiar rattle against each other. She had every type imaginable, hearts and Goddess figures and shamrocks and skulls. Some had been gifts, others she’d bought herself. When people asked about them, she just shrugged and said she was superstitious.

In the end, she gathered up the objects, placed them back in their bag, and left.

Better to leave the questions to Jack.

Before disposing of Stoltz’s body, Jack took pictures.

The Stalking Ground worked on a barter system, information for information. If Jack wanted details that could lead him to other members of The Pack, he would have to pay for them—and there was only one kind of acceptable currency.

He took lots of close-ups.

He was good with a camera, had even done some professional work before deciding to concentrate on sculpture. He’d always preferred shooting static objects to people or landscapes—he liked being able to control the lighting, angle, and background without any distracting variables like movement. And an object always had a story to tell; you just had to find the right way to reveal it.

Stoltz’s body was a documentary of pain. Abrasions, burns, cuts… each one a milestone of destruction. Not of Stoltz’s will—his own fear had destroyed that almost immediately.

It was a record of erosion. Jack’s erosion.

The more questions he asked, the more certain he was that Stoltz was telling the truth.

But he hadn’t stopped.

He told himself it was because he had to be sure. It could have all been an act. All it would take was one lie to trip him up and reveal his secret to The Pack.

But Stoltz’s body told a different story.

Jack remembered every step, the significance of each wound. It was a landscape of loss, a ruined fortress of secrets that he roamed at will. He remembered how he felt at every stage… and at a certain point, he’d simply stopped feeling guilty.

He was still taking pictures when Nikki came downstairs.

“You’re gonna what?” Nikki said.

Jack studied the edge of a hacksaw. “I’m going to courier Stoltz’s brain to the Gourmet.”

“The Gourmet?
Fuck
the Gourmet—let’s go after the goddamn
Patron!”

Nikki paced back and forth in the chamber. Road Rage’s body, its face bloated and purple, was still tied to the chair.

“I don’t know how to get to him yet,” Jack said. “The Gourmet has very specific tastes. He won’t pass up the chance to consume the brain of the Closer.”

“I’m starting to think the brain of the Closer has
already
been fucking consumed, Jack. You wanna warm up with
this
loser—” she said, gesturing at the body in the chair, “—fine, I get that. But we’re talking about the fucker that killed your
family.”

“Yes,” Jack said quietly. “And now I’m killing his—”

She stopped and stared at him incredulously. “Is that what this is about? You think killing off The Pack is gonna make the Patron
suffer?
That is complete
bull- shit,
Jack, and you know it. First, the whole happy- family-of-serial-killers was Djinn-X’s thing, and he’s gone off to that big Kurt Cobain concert in the sky. Second—Jesus, Jack, the Patron doesn’t care about
anyone.
He goes through body parts the way a writer goes through paper. He’s the biggest fucking monster we’ve found—and I’m starting to think he’s got bigger balls than
you
do.”

“This isn’t a contest. It’s a process of elimination.”

“I don’t know about that, Jack. Maybe when it was just us hunting them, that was true. But now, they
know.
They tried to fucking
assassinate
you
—”

“And they think they succeeded.” Jack started undoing the nut that secured the hacksaw blade. “But we did. One less of them.”

“Right. So they’re weaker, we’re stronger. And right now, they’re probably even feeling a little cocky. Overconfident. But it won’t last, Jack—we gotta go after them
now.”

He detached the blade, selected one with larger teeth. “We are. I just want to make sure we do it right—”

“Right?
Right?”
She laughed. “Jack, you got a copy of
Hunting Serial Killers for Dummies
you haven’t told me about? ’Cause I kinda thought we were making this up as we went along.”

He aligned the blade, tightened the holding nut. “Nikki, you know how the process works. It takes patience.”

“It’s different now, Jack. Can’t you see that? We’re not doing the bait-and-switch thing anymore—we’re going
after
the motherfuckers.
And they know it.”

“I told you, they think I’m dead—”

“And how long before they figure out that isn’t true? You really think you can fool these guys forever?”

Jack put down the hacksaw and looked at her levelly. “Not forever. Just long enough.”

Nikki shook her head. “I don’t know, Jack. I can’t tell if you’re just so focused you can’t change your plan—or maybe you don’t
want
to go after the Patron.”

“You think I’m afraid?”

“Nothing wrong with being afraid, Jack. I just wonder what you’re afraid
of.”

The laptop chimed.

“Incoming message,” Jack said. “Someone wants to talk to Djinn-X.”

“Go ahead, chat with your pals,” Nikki said. “Just don’t forget who you’re supposed to
be.”

She stalked out of the chamber.

Jack frowned. He’d almost slipped up with that last exchange. The conversation with Nikki had upset him more than he’d thought—he’d have to be more careful.

He adjusted the volume control on the laptop’s speakers, and activated the file. The first voice he heard sounded like a young woman’s; the second was electronically disguised. Obviously, the Patron was taking no chances… but when Jack heard his first words, his heart froze.

Pure, paranoid fear paralyzed him. He was suddenly sure that disguised voice was his, that the Patron had somehow recorded one of his interrogations and was playing it back to him in the moment before he burst through the door and ended Jack’s life—

The woman’s scream jolted him, sent his pulse racing. He gasped.

Jack forced himself to look down at the next message.

Another file began downloading. It was much larger than the last one.

It seemed to take forever for the file to finish loading. Jack couldn’t keep his eyes off the icon that told him how far along the file was; the Stalking Ground used a little guillotine. It chopped off tiny cartoon heads which then fell into a basket, over and over.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

Finally, it was done. Jack swallowed, then opened the file.

It was a recorded video feed. A young woman was tied to a chair. In the background, black plastic gleamed wetly. It was identical to Jack’s interrogation chamber.

The voice was the same heavily filtered one on the first recording.

Another figure entered the frame. It was cloaked in a hooded plastic rain slicker, the same shiny black as the walls. The Patron. Keeping his back to the camera, he reached out with black-gloved hands and wrapped something around the woman’s forehead, just above her eyebrows: a thin strand of wire.

Jack knew what was coming. “No,” he whispered.