The Serial Killers Club Part 17

"Who's there?"

"What's going on?"

"I saw someone!"

"Police! Back off, you f.u.c.ks!" Tony's voice is getting hoa.r.s.e and breathless from his pursuit.

Some of the lights swing into one another, and the occupants of the boats are mutually blinded. They jag around wildly, and one hits the front grille of Agent's Wade car. I've got about fifty yards to go.

A huge gunshot roars out. This is unlike anything I've ever heard, and something screams past me.

"I see him! I see him!"

"Where!?"

"There!"

Another gunshot booms out, and I realize that I'm being shot at by thief-hating boat owners with high-velocity rifles.

"There he is!"

Another bullet crashes through the air, and I'm suddenly in the middle of a gun battle.

"Put those freaking guns down, you p.r.i.c.ks!" Tony is still coming after me, but I know I'm making ground on him because only a lunatic would try to run through the salvos that are erupting everywhere around me. Vietnam has come to Chicago.

"Stop freaking shooting or I'll kill you where you stand, you dumb f.u.c.k b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" Tony lets off a few rounds, smas.h.i.+ng some of the fog lights, shattering the gla.s.s of cabin windows. "I do the freaking shooting, okay?!"

Tony's voice rises hugely above everything, and as I reach the white-haired man's cabin-ten yards from where I'm parked-the world goes silent. The shooting has stopped, the lights dip down and point away from me, and I am nearly home.

But as I get within Tony's spitting distance of the car, the white-haired man suddenly bursts from his cabin, yelling and screaming for his life, and as I look down I can see that both his feet are on fire. I run smack into him and tumble forward, the flames from his feet scorching my eyebrows as we roll over and over. The white-haired old man yells in blind panic, and I absolutely and unequivocally hate him for going to sleep with his feet on top of a heater. I don't get time to dwell on it because I can hear Tony thundering ever closer.

"Stop that guy! Hey-you with the feet! Stop him!"

I shove the burning man away from me, scramble desperately for Agent Wade's car, and hurl myself behind the wheel. As I gun the engine, I see Tony emerge from the darkness and take aim at the car. I duck right down, slam the car into reverse, and hammer the pedal right to the floor. I don't care where I'm going, all I want to do is get out of there.

Tony's first shot hits the madly hopping white-haired man in the shoulder, sending him spinning off the jetty and into the subzero waters. His second shot takes off a wing mirror, and his third shot misses completely as I reverse straight into a storefront window. As mannequins dressed in knitted fisherman's sweaters fall all over the hood, I grind into first, fail to get any traction, and then skid sideways out of the store. Tony is still coming for me-reloading as he does-but I drag the wheel hard right, hit the main road, and screech down it. I have done all of this with practically only my forehead and above visible. As another couple of shots zing around me, I decide that it might be prudent to drive like this all the way home.

"I'll find out who you are!" Even Tony's great voice is eventually lost in the distance I put between us.

I am not sure how I am going to get the shots I took of Tony developed, but I know of a local photographer's shop across town that I could break into. I could take out a book from Betty's library on how to develop photographs, and it takes my mind off this awful night thinking that I've got a good excuse to go see her. Failing that, I will just bring them to KlippyKlap Snaps, which is currently offering a second set of glossy prints and a free roll of film with every order.

It is only when I park outside my house and let myself in that I realize I still have Burt's head trapped in the hood of my oilskin.

When I take off my oilskins and shake the rain from them, it flops out and lands with a thud at my feet. A damp-looking Agent Wade looks up from toweling his hair dry, sees Burt's head, and then looks toward me. His expression doesn't waver for a second.

"You, uh, bringing your work home now?"

CHER.

DEAD RINGER.

THE SAME NIGHT that I went out to take the photographs of Tony and Burt, it appears that an illegal immigrant was brutally stabbed to death and had a KFC family-size carton dumped on his head. The Kentucky Killer is in town, and the papers and the television are going crazy. It is hard to tell the difference between them being overfearful or overexcited. It's like a movie star has flown in, and this king of killers is getting more coverage than anyone I ever remember. Proof of G.o.d wouldn't generate this much publicity. If it wasn't for the fact that the Kentucky Killer slaughtered countless innocents, I would fully expect him to be there to open the new cinema complex we have just had built. Instead they settle for a movie star whose last three films have flopped and no one bothers to show. that I went out to take the photographs of Tony and Burt, it appears that an illegal immigrant was brutally stabbed to death and had a KFC family-size carton dumped on his head. The Kentucky Killer is in town, and the papers and the television are going crazy. It is hard to tell the difference between them being overfearful or overexcited. It's like a movie star has flown in, and this king of killers is getting more coverage than anyone I ever remember. Proof of G.o.d wouldn't generate this much publicity. If it wasn't for the fact that the Kentucky Killer slaughtered countless innocents, I would fully expect him to be there to open the new cinema complex we have just had built. Instead they settle for a movie star whose last three films have flopped and no one bothers to show.

I breathe deeply, trying to take stock of the situation as Agent Wade turns on the news and we settle down to watch the TV reporter trying to interview a Mexican-looking spokesman from the League of Human Rights.

REPORTER: If Jose knew he was going to die this way, d'you think he would have chosen the Kentucky Killer to do it?SPOKESMAN: I would rather concentrate on the fact that Jose was in truth a victim of congressional dehumanization.

REPORTER: Yeah, but think of the positives a second. Jose's going to get his photo in a best-selling book.

I wonder why the television psychiatrist hasn't made an appearance. So far, he has always refused to be drawn in on the subject of the Kentucky Killer, and I for one would like to hear what's he got to say.

Agent Wade hangs on every word of the news report, then channel hops to another news program and devours every morsel from that one as well. He leans forward, a glint of excitement in his eyes, and I note that sometimes he nods to himself and says, "Uh-huh . . . uh-huh," as the reporters give their on-scene accounts.

Finally the reports end and he looks my way. "He's here. . . ."

I take out and unwrap a candy bar, crunching into it.

Agent Wade is in raptures. "We're so close now, Dougie."

I allow myself to savor the sweet candy, letting it melt in my mouth rather than chewing it. Agent Wade pauses to scratch himself and then speaks without looking up. "He's the one . . . the only one."

Agent Wade then gives me a real sinister smile. He scratches himself again, and to tell the truth, I can't remember him taking a shower since he moved in with me.

That sinister smile stays fixed on his face until eventually he speaks.

"I can smell him."

Later, as Agent Wade dozes in front of a late night horror movie-one that gives me the creeps so bad that I keep imagining there is someone waiting for me in my bedroom-I sneak a look in Agent Wade's jacket, which is hanging on the kitchen door. I gently remove his wallet and his badge and also find some unused napkins from KFC. He has a regulation FBI pen and pad and an unopened pack of gum. I check to make sure he is definitely asleep and then go into the kitchen and lay the stuff out in the not-so-pristine sink.

In the wallet is at least $800, and I can't believe Agent Wade keeps making me pay for everything. I take three twenties for myself just to even things out a little. I then find about sixty receipts for motel lodgings and gas. They are from all over and date back eight months. He is obviously keeping these for his expenses claim. Agent Wade seems to have been all over the Midwest in that time, and I remember the clock on his car reading well over eighty thousand miles. The man has put in a lot of time and distance in his attempts to find me.

I then check his FBI badge, and there is no doubting its authenticity. The napkins seem innocent enough until I note that he has written a number on the back of each one. They are in sequence and read from 286 to 295. Each number is written in red ink.

I can't figure this out at first, but as I unwrap his packet of gum and stuff a stick in my mouth, I start to get this growing shudder running down my spine. Like someone walking on my grave.

I look at the numbers again. I remember the lemon-scented hand wipes, the incessant desire for KFC produce, and realize I need some air. I haven't felt this scared since the night I joined the Club.

A bloodcurdling scream erupts from the living room. I jerk so violently that I spill the wallet. I turn and then realize that the horror film is still playing. I catch my breath, wait to see if Agent Wade has woken, and feel a huge relief when I can't hear him stirring from the sofa. I quickly scoop up the wallet.

"Dougie . . . ?" Agent Wade calls out from the living room. I grab everything and stuff it quickly into my back pocket. I even spit the chewing gum across the kitchen just in case he recognizes that it's his.

Agent Wade appears in the doorway; he looks tired and yawns. "Where's the boot polish?"

"The what?"

"The polish. . . ."

Agent Wade walks toward me, and my heart quickens-and then he reaches past me for the tap. He runs the cold faucet and dips his head under, refres.h.i.+ng himself. When he finishes he looks back at me with a very condemning look.

"This sink is disgusting, Dougie."

I nod, deciding to stay silent in case he hears the tremor in my voice.

"I want to be able to see my face in it."

I nod again.

Agent Wade yawns, stretches, and then does this maneuver that makes his shoulders crack. It is a truly horrible sound and sets my teeth on edge.

"Let's go."

"Where?"

"We've got to keep the pressure on, Dougie."

"Another murder already?"

"Yeah, I'm chomping at the bit here. Ole KK's got me fired up."

"It's late."

"Perfect time to strike. Come on, find me some boot polish. 'Bout time I joined in the fun."

With that, Agent Wade walks out of the kitchen, giving his shoulders another of those hideous cracks.

As soon as he is gone, I turn on the cold faucet and start glugging down as much water as I can. I keep drinking and drinking and drinking. I feel so parched, I don't think the whole of Lake Michigan could quench my thirst. Four words keep doing the can-can in my head. It's a rhythmic beat with trumpets and gongs: Lemon-scented hand wipes. Lemon-scented hand wipes. Lemon-scented hand wipes.

Half an hour later, and we are both wearing black. Agent Wade applies black boot polish to my cheeks, nose, and forehead with a handkerchief. I feel like a marine about to do a midnight raid. Agent Wade finishes, then hands me the boot polish.

"Watch the eyes. I don't want it in my eyes."

I pause, hadn't realized I was meant to do this.

"C'mon, Dougie . . . just watch the eyes, huh?"

I feel uneasy as I dab the handkerchief in the boot polish and start blacking out Agent Wade's face. I finish, and as I step back to admire my handiwork, I see that Agent Wade's blue eyes seem all the more piercing and hypnotic thanks to the black background they stare out from.

"How do I look?"

"Like me."

I pause, and Agent Wade sees that I look concerned.

"What is it?"

"Why are you coming along?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"What I mean is, you don't need to black up as well, do you?"

"Sure I do."

"Why?"

"It's procedure, Dougie. Procedure." Agent Wade's white teeth grin out at me. "We can't have you grabbing all the glory, can we?"

I don't know how to answer that. I truly don't.

Outside, a car horn beeps. Agent Wade glances at his watch. "That'll be our taxi."

The taxi driver turns out to be a woman who twenty years ago probably possessed the looks and body of a supermodel. The years haven't been kind to her, and I try to make our journey a pleasant reminder of her golden days.

"You know, you could pa.s.s for a supermodel's mother." I note that the taxi driver is too shy to respond. "Honestly. You could. And I'm not just saying that."

The taxi driver looks in her rearview at us but still refuses to say anything. I lean forward, give her a warm look, or at least as warm as I can underneath all the boot polish. "Listen, I read about this new science. Everyone's raving about it. Nanotechnology. It's meant to repair all the bad things about yourself. You know, all those duff little molecules inside you. . . . They say it'll be in the high street stores within the next five or six years." I give a big, friendly smile. "So, you know, if you can hold out that long . . . well, who knows, eh? I'll certainly be giving you a call."

The taxi driver doesn't look round, preferring instead to treat my conversation with a silent reverence, which I acknowledge with a knowing smile as I sit back in my seat. Agent Wade glances across at me.

"You can't help it, can you? You're a real stud with the girls."

"Well . . ." I shrug but fail to hide a slight touch of arrogance in my look.

"It's a lesson being with you."

Throughout the journey, the taxi driver keeps glancing back in her rearview, and even though I know she wants to know why we are wearing boot polish, I also know she probably wants my phone number but is too timid to ask. I take the liberty of writing it on the dollar bill I tip her with. And just to make sure she doesn't miss it, I tear the bill in half and give her only the section with the number on it.

"Nano, nano." I grin and wink at her before turning to catch up with Agent Wade as he walks toward Cher's place.

Cher's childhood was basically split into two categories. Category A was before Cher's beloved uncle Ernst was released from prison. Category B was after dear old uncle Ernst rejoined society and was then rounded up and hung by an angry mob for a crime he may or may not have committed. Cher, at the ripe old age of eight-I don't know what that is in Native American years-witnessed the whole thing. Ever since then, she has been on a mission to eradicate the perpetrators. All twenty-six of them and a few of their relatives for good measure. I actually argued that this didn't make her a serial killer, just a rather vengeful person, but the television psychiatrist had sealed the argument with his p.r.o.nouncement that the "Hanover Hangman" could turn out to be one of the most vicious and unrelenting skillers in modern history.

Agent Wade stops at the foot of her drive and lets out a long, low sigh. I can see that he looks a little troubled.

"What is it?"

"She won an Oscar."

"Who?"

"Cher."

"So?"

"Well . . . she's a star. Can you kill stars?"