Paradox (An FBI Thriller Book 22) Page 9

  “Shut up! Stop your criticizing, Lissy. You know I hate it. It was my idea, my plan, and it was perfect. Keep your trap shut. You remember how sometimes I had to punish you for not respecting me?”

  19

  * * *

  She didn’t say anything. Maybe that would shut her up for a while. Maybe it meant she was ready to see him now as he was, as he saw himself. Victor smoothed out his fists, flattened his palms on his legs.

  Suddenly, she laughed, right in his face, a match to the flames. Yeah, that’s you, Victor—the big man. You think you’re so cool. Without me you’re a putz, and don’t forget it.

  He nearly burst with rage. He began hitting his fists against his legs, once, then again and again. “Don’t rag on me, Lissy! It was a good plan. Just because it was my plan and not yours, you have to criticize me, make me feel bad. No matter what you think, I got it done, didn’t I? You know as well as I do nobody’s going to find the lawyer’s body, nobody’s going to see the stupid rowboat, and nobody’s going to go to the third floor of Gatewood. Everyone’s scared of that big old house. Porto will rot in that closet, long and slow. I did that without you, without your crazy mama. One dead and gone, one left to rot. What more could you want?”

  My mama wasn’t crazy! She was smart—

  “Your mama got her head nearly shot off! You told me how her neck exploded and blood spurted out everywhere.” He heard low shattered sobs. He whispered, “I’m sorry, Lissy, I know you loved your mama. I’m sorry. She wasn’t crazy, exactly. She was different, that’s all.”

  The sobs stopped. Silence, then, Well, dead is dead, after all. Mama went out in a blaze of glory. I heard that once in a movie—a blaze of glory. She would have liked that, maybe.

  Victor, you know what I want. I didn’t care about that lawyer, Ryan. She was your demon, not mine. I never could figure out why it was so important for you to kill her. So why did you?

  “Be quiet, Lissy. You don’t know anything.”

  She laughed, high, vicious, and too loud, right in his ear. Then her voice became a sneer, and he could feel her hot breath against his cheek. All that poor cow Ryan ever did was tell the truth, Victor. You couldn’t stand to hear the truth, could you? It made you feel small, like a worm. But Ryan didn’t hurt you, not like Savich hurt me. He didn’t only hurt me, he killed me.

  Ryan saved your butt, made the judge cry for poor little Victor Nesser, bossed around by his sixteen-year-old girlfriend, mashed down under her dainty thumb. Ryan played the judge perfectly, got you declared incompetent to stand trial. I would have sent her a bottle of champagne. Face it, Victor, you killed her because she told the truth and you couldn’t stand it.

  I didn’t think that loony bin was so bad. Plus it gave us time to plan our revenge. And you fooled all those stupid shrinks, made them feel sorry for you, made them feel you were recovering. You were smart, Victor. You hid those pills under your tongue and slipped right out of that place in a nurse’s uniform, the guards nodding good night to you on your way out. I was proud of you.

  He smiled into the dying embers. “No, the place wasn’t bad.” He paused, then, “Like I said, Lissy, you don’t know everything. In this, you don’t know anything. Shut up now and go to sleep.”

  I don’t want to go to sleep! I want my belly to stop hurting. I don’t want all those fricking staples digging into me. I hate it! And here you are, acting all righteous for killing that bitch for some stupid reason you won’t tell me.

  I want Savich and Sherlock. They’re the ones who ruined everything. He’s the one who kicked me in my belly, he’s the one who shot me in the chest. You could have gone right after him, but you went after his kid first. And look how that turned out.

  She made him so mad he stuttered. “Th-that was all b-bad luck. You know that, Lissy. It wasn’t on me.”

  Bad luck or not, trying to take the Savich kid out of his own house was a stretch. Like I told you, you should have gone after Savich or Sherlock.

  He rubbed his ankle, remembering how he’d had to shinny down that oak tree outside the kid’s bedroom and jump, hurting the same ankle Sherlock had shot. “That wasn’t my fault! They shouldn’t have heard me, shouldn’t have known until the next morning when the kid was gone. I didn’t make a sound, so how did they know?” He realized he’d nearly screamed the words and went silent, sat very still, listening. Nothing, no one had heard him. And he wondered again how they’d known he was there. It still baffled him.

  Don’t give yourself a stroke, Victor. Yeah, okay, maybe it was a good plan, maybe it was bad luck. I know why you went after the kid first. I mean, Savich shot me. And you love me more than anybody in the whole wide world, so you wanted to take away his little boy. It was a good idea. It would have made him real scared, that’s for sure.

  She was being nice now, but Victor was still shaking. He took slow, deep breaths. It had been a long day, and his ankle hurt—it always hurt, only much more today.

  Your ankle hurts, always makes you grunt and groan and feel sorry for yourself. So why don’t you put the blame where it belongs? That redheaded agent Sherlock was the one who shot you in the ankle to bring you down, not that poor old cow Ryan. Sherlock—what a stupid name that is, but I really liked her hair. I think she lied to me, that red color wasn’t natural, she dyed it red and curled it. I could have done that.

  Victor knew Lissy was preening, fluffing her hair. He shook his head. The past and the present, always bumping against each other, mixing things up. He couldn’t let himself forget which was which. Now was now. He had to stay focused. There was so much more to do.

  Victor heard something, maybe sneakers walking quiet as a ghost through the leaves. The girl park ranger? Was she tracking him? Had she seen him drive in, followed him? Did she have a gun? He got on his feet, the agent’s Glock in his hand. He racked the slide, and it made him feel less afraid, ready for a fight.

  A small burning branch exploded in the fire pit, made him jump. He nearly pulled the trigger, maybe shot himself in the foot. He cursed but didn’t move, stood still as a beam of light and listened.

  There, movement, off to his left, a rustling sound. He brought up the Glock and whirled around. He very nearly fired again when he saw the flash of an animal as it ran all-out away from him through the trees. Maybe a fox. He slowly slid the Glock into his waistband and sat back down by his fire pit, forced himself to calm again.

  I knew no one was there, Victor. All you had to do was ask me. You got all scared, nearly peed yourself over a little animal. It was afraid of you, but you got all wigged out. For what? Nothing. And the stunt you pulled at the book festival, buying a fricking chocolate bar to help you grab up the Savich kid? How lame was that? If it wasn’t for that kid stampede, you would have been caught.

  Victor wanted to slap her, that’d get her attention. He fought for control. She was right, really, a lot of things had gone sideways. And today at the book festival, if only he’d had time to think it through, he could have ironed out the possible wrinkles. He would have realized the bitch agent would be on her guard, ready for him. But he’d had to move fast, too fast. No, it was nothing. Less than nothing. Today was an A+ for him. “Give your mouth a rest, Lissy. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  Victor? I lied. I really didn’t like that crazy ward they put us in. I don’t want to go back. I like being free. Smell the fire, Victor. Feel the warm air on your face. Yes, this is much better. Can you hear the crickets? Noisy little buggers. And there’s an owl hooting. It’s so lovely here and so quiet, no screaming kiddies or arguing parents like at the campground sites. I’m tired, Victor, and my stomach still hurts. I wish I could get the staples out, always itching and tugging, and I can feel my skin pulling. Savich’s fault, all his fault. And Sherlock’s the one who shot your ankle, made you a cripple. Where are your priorities? Sometimes I don’t know what to do with you.

  “I’m not a cripple.”

  Face it, Victor, you need me. I always know what to do.


  He hit his leg with his fist, once, twice, three times. “Look, I got us here to a nice isolated campsite, carried in all the crap we need, and you didn’t hear any whining from me about my ankle.”

  Yeah, okay, you’re a real macho.

  “And you’re a real pain, Lissy.” Victor watched the small fire slowly die, and brooded. He’d get it all done.

  She whispered, I liked our time at Gatewood, Victor. Ghosts live there, you know. I could feel them roaming around, going from room to room. That’s why I wanted to make our room shine and sparkle, let them know we were there and to stay out. I kinda felt sorry for them, but I guess they didn’t have anywhere else to go, nobody to care they’re holed up in that creepy old house. They’re not free like you and me. I’ll be with you forever.

  “Yes, you will, and I’m glad, Lissy.”

  You know I always wanted to go to Montana. I figure we can leave soon now, as soon as you take care of business. I wish you’d tell me why you bothered to kill that lawyer.

  He only shook his head. Victor picked up a s’more from the grate. Perfect. The marshmallows and chocolate were melted, but not too hot, and they stuck to his teeth. He licked and licked, closed his eyes with pleasure. Before he let sleep drag him under, he whispered, “I love you, Lissy. I’m sorry about the staples in your belly.”

  It’s okay, Victor. I’ll live.

  20

  * * *

  NORM'S FISH & BAIT

  BOWMAN, MARYLAND

  SUNDAY MORNING

  “Hi, young fella. I’m Norm. This all ya need?”

  Victor nodded. He stood at the banged-up wooden counter in Norm’s Fish & Bait in Bowman, a small town not five miles from Greenbrier State Park, and lined up his purchases. Norm, a grizzled old dude with an unlit cigar hanging out of his mouth, studied each item and its price, then punched them with arthritic fingers into an old-fashioned cash register. Fritos, bean dip, carrots, crunchy peanut butter, and white bread. Victor saw a stack of Milk Duds and felt his mouth water. Did Lissy like Milk Duds?

  He jumped when she whispered against his ear, Of course I like Milk Duds. That’s a stupid question. I like anything chocolate. I wish you’d gotten me one of those big chocolate bars you threw to all those little kiddies, what a waste.

  She wouldn’t ever let up, he knew it. He wanted to tell her buying the huge chocolate bar from the kiosk opposite the big tent had been creative, it was genius. He’d pictured it in his mind—using it to create chaos. But the redheaded bitch had been hovering over the kid, on red alert.

  Victor laid two Milk Duds on the counter, one for him, one for Lissy. He watched Norm slowly press the ancient keys to ring up each little box on that ridiculous cash register from two centuries ago. He felt Lissy close, knew she was waiting to remind him she’d known Sherlock would be on the lookout for him at the book festival, watchful and ready if he tried something. Would you look at that old varmint, chewing on that nasty cigar, his breath toxic and his teeth yellow. I want to get out of here, Victor. He’s giving me the creeps.

  Victor heard his name and froze.

  He looked up at a grainy old TV set on a shelf behind Norm, surrounded by boxes of cigarettes. Victor’s brain went blank, his breath hitched in his throat. How was this possible? He stared at his booking photo from two and a half years ago, heard the newswoman saying: “Victor Nesser, aged twenty-three, is wanted for questioning in the murder of federal prosecutor Octavia Ryan in Willicott, Maryland, on Friday.” She said he’d escaped six weeks ago from the Central State Hospital and was being sought by police.

  Victor couldn’t breathe. He felt poleaxed. They’d found Ryan’s body? Already? But how? He’d seen no one on that freaking lake when he’d rowed her out. Not a soul, and the fog, it was thick, like veils lifting up and down. It was barely daylight. And they knew his name? It was impossible. He’d done everything right. He was shaking, his breath coming fast and hard.

  Norm said, “That’ll be fifteen dollars and thirteen cents.” He looked up at Victor as he loaded up a bag. “Hey, what’s wrong, kid, you sick or something? You’re white as my Maude’s bridal sheets.” He laughed. “I guess by now they’d be as yellow as her teeth, they’re so old. What’s wrong?”

  How? He’d been so careful. He’d wiped everything down, left nothing that could be connected to him. What? The old coot wanted money. Victor’s hands shook as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and peeled off a twenty-dollar bill.

  “You got thirteen cents? Make it easier, you know?”

  “No.” Victor couldn’t look away from his face on the TV. How could they possibly know?

  “You watching the news about that escaped murderer? He’s a kid, like you, imagine that, and the little psycho’s already been in a mental hospital. Who raises a boy to rob banks? And now he’s killed his own lawyer. His parents should be in the cell next to him.” He waved his hand back at the TV. “They’ve played it three or four times already. As if a murderer would stop in here to buy some junk food for a campout. That’s what you’re doing, right? Camping out? You’re too young to have kids yet.” The cigar moved and shifted, and a moist piece of tobacco fell onto his chin. Victor couldn’t stop staring at it.

  The newswoman’s voice droned on in the background.

  “Hey, you look familiar. Have I seen you before?”

  Kill him, kill him! Shoot him between the eyes, Victor. You can’t let the stupid old geezer live. Do it now!

  But Victor grabbed his bag and bolted out of the store.

  “Buddy, you forgot your change!”

  Maude stuck her head through the curtain dividing the store from the small office. They watched the dirty Kia peel out of the parking lot in front of the store. “Hey, Norm, what’s with that skinny young kid?”

  Norm carefully took the cigar out of his mouth, picked the fleck of tobacco off his chin, shrugged. “It was weird. The kid turned white and ran out of here, forgot his change.” Norm saw a box of Milk Duds had fallen on the floor. He picked it up, placed the box carefully in a straight line with the others. He stuck his cigar back between his lips as he turned to look at the TV again.

  “Holy crap,” he said. His cigar dropped to the counter and rolled against a bag of Fritos.

  21

  * * *

  LAKE MASSEY

  WILLICOTT, MARYLAND

  SUNDAY MORNING

  Sala and Ty followed well behind Hanger Lewis’s pontoon boat as its net slowly dragged the next narrow slice of the lake.

  Ty didn’t need to be here in her runabout. It was wasted time, really, with the book festival still going on, but she knew Sala needed distraction. And this was as good a way as any. “Here, you steer,” she said to him, “I’ll get us some water.”

  Sala changed places with her, took the rudder. “They haven’t found many more bones in the last half hour, so that’s good, I guess.”

  Was it? How few was good? How many bones was too many? Ty remembered the Green River Killer in Washington, how the detectives still argued over the details of the case. So many women murdered, so many never found. She remembered her father telling her mother to never be out alone. Ty drew in a deep breath. Had she come across her own Green River Killer here at Lake Massey? She was terrified she wouldn’t catch him, because more people might be murdered, and it would be on her head now. She was in charge, and she would have to bury her doubts, her private fears so deep, she herself couldn’t find them. Like her dad always said, one step at a time. It was time for her to take that first step. Ty handed Sala a bottle of cold water from the ice chest. They both drank. It was going to be a scorcher today, no fog left to cool things down, only brilliant sun overhead. She’d given him a hat. They wore sunglasses and had so much sunscreen slathered on their faces, their noses were white.

  Sala looked tired. Ty didn’t know when he’d finally fallen asleep the previous night, but she’d been aware on some level that he’d tossed and turned, undoubtedly reliving what had happened, churning with guilt
even though none of it had been his fault. But otherwise, he was holding up. The fresh air was good for him, not to mention the two cups of her Turkish espresso she’d given him. It was almost as thick as sludge and would jump-start anything with a pulse.

  Ty looked out toward the pontoon some twenty yards ahead of them. They had to stop every few minutes and pull in the big net, clean it out. How many morons had thrown their beer bottles into the lake? She said, “So far this morning they’ve found the bones of maybe ten more people. Ten people, Sala, human beings, murdered and tossed into the lake like they were refuse. And we never would have found them if I hadn’t seen Octavia killed.”

  At the sound of Octavia’s name, Sala felt his throat close up. He swallowed, made himself focus on Charlie and Hanger sorting through garbage in the net. There were only the two of them today. Charlie raised a femur, showed it to Ty. Sala said, “If I know Dr. Thomas, he’s at Quantico right now—Sunday—examining the bones they took to him yesterday.”

  Another few minutes passed. Hanger had pulled the pontoon closer to shore, nearer the Gatewood dock, and hovered a moment there. They watched Charlie lean over the side of the pontoon, straighten, and shout, “Chief, I see more bones.”

  Ty kicked up the motor and eased her runabout alongside the pontoon. Hanger had pulled up the net. “Look, it’s another man’s loafer, nothing inside. The loafer’s nearly disintegrated. And look at this. A belt buckle.” Hanger cleaned it off with a towel and held it up. “It looks like it’s real gold. It’s a Star of David belt buckle. Never seen anything like that before. No belt, guess it rotted away a long time ago.”

  Ty felt a rush of hope. They hadn’t found any ID’s, the killer must have taken them. What had survived—some belts, shoes, bits of fabric—could have been purchased anywhere. But this belt buckle was unique. Hanger handed it to her, and she polished it even more before she studied it. “It’s very distinctive. You’re right, Hanger. I’ll bet there aren’t many of these around.”