Jericho's Razor (13 page)

Striding in my sweatpants and bare feet across the cool hardwood floor, I found the remote and clicked on the stereo. The sounds of Joe Satriani's “Starry Night” boomed through the speakers. It was one of his more simple yet melodic works, perfect to recalibrate to. I started a pot of coffee and then took a long hot shower, trying to scrub away the events of the previous forty-eight hours. My clothes from the night before lay in a pile on the floor, the smell of smoke and burning flesh woven into the fabric. I dropped them down the garbage chute.

By the time I changed into new clothes, the aroma of fresh coffee had filled the loft. I made an omelet on the skillet, tossing pieces of ham and bacon and cheese to the dog. There was a therapy in cooking that reminded you that you were still alive and kicking. I stood at the window drinking coffee, looking at the fog hanging over the river like a blanket. The town was a mix of growth and decay, construction sites for brand-new, state-of-the-art facilities mixed with buildings that were over a hundred years old and showing their age. It made for a schizophrenic skyline.

The music rotated to a song recorded by Katrina's former band, Midnight. The music was far less hostile than Hell Kat's and emphasized melody rather than mayhem. Back then, Katrina had played drums while also providing vocals. The song that played, “Daydream,” was a ballad of lost love and heartache and regret. Even though Katrina had written the track years before we met, it seemed to be the soundtrack to our rocky relationship and summed up exactly how I was feeling. I thought about calling her to see if she was okay, even though I knew that she would just insult me and give me grief. It was hard to imagine that the relationship between her and Watts had been anything more than physical, but with Katrina, one just never knew.

The song ended and I was reaching for the phone when her brother came on the TV. The congressman wore a navy blue suit, white shirt, and crimson tie, as conservative as a GOP billboard. As was his custom, Masters began abruptly. He liked to get his audience's attention early.

“Our home is under siege. Two people have been savagely murdered. More deaths are promised. We know this, because this killer has opened a line of communication with those in law enforcement. He is taunting the brave men and women who serve our community by bragging about what he has already done and what he promises to do in the future.

“It is clear that this monster is modeling himself after the fictional character known as Christian Black. These books are the vital works of a sick human being: Jericho Sands is a killer. Let us never forget that. He grew up in a cult. He killed another human being and was allowed to walk. He has lived here among us, free to do as he pleases. Is it any wonder that we now have a sadistic killer running rampant through our city? As I understand it, Sands was even interrogated immediately following the murder of Eric Watts, but was released.” Masters concluded his statement and opened the floor for questions. They came immediately.

“Congressman, are you suggesting that Jericho Sands is responsible for the emergence of this killer? Or even that he may possibly be the person calling himself the River City Slasher?”

Masters held his hands up, in a hold-off motion, grinning smugly.

“Now, now, Connie. I cannot comment too directly on an ongoing investigation. But if Jericho Sands is in fact behind this, I will see to it that he spends the rest of his life in prison.”

I turned and kicked the first thing I encountered, an end table that was more than a match against my bare foot. As pain rocketed through my toes, a lamp sitting on the table trembled like a high-rise in an earthquake, fell to the floor, and shattered. Doomsday looked on with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment as I hobbled to the couch.

“I suppose you think that was funny?” I asked. Doomsday has watched me act out my frustrations in all sorts of entertaining ways over the years.

My computer dinged, signaling that I had an email. Tanner had sent me a file on Jagger. I sat at the desk with a fresh cup of coffee and read. She was adopted, raised by seemingly loving parents. There was a rebellious youth that she eventually grew out of. After high school, Jagger spent two years at a community college, where she earned a degree and then joined the Kansas City Police.

She rose quickly. A newspaper article was attached to the file. Jagger had been involved in a shooting. She was off-duty and on her way home when she stopped at a gas station to buy gas. And walked right into a robbery. The suspects were locals who recognized Jagger as a cop and opened fire. A leap behind a beer display was the only thing that saved her. The shootout resulted in the deaths of all three suspects, as well as the clerk who had been caught in the crossfire. Jagger was the only one to leave the store alive.

It was messy, but not unheard of. It happened, especially in larger cities like Kansas City. The inquiry made by Internal Affairs was long and drawn-out. Apparently they had some sort of evidence against Jagger and were desperate to act on it. But it never happened. She took a transfer and the matter was dropped.

Tanner was right. Alyssa Jagger was smart, tough, and carried a massive chip on her shoulder. Exactly the kind of woman I tend to gravitate toward. She was most likely looking for a shot at redemption. And some killer was giving her the perfect opportunity.

The River City Slasher, whoever this person was, held the city in the grip of fear. Two murders, with more promised to come. I had found a refuge here, a place to hide from my past and build something of a life. But it was all crashing down. Just like last time, I watched as others fell, helpless to do anything about it.

Doomsday leaped from the sofa and hurried to the door. From a foot away he began barking, loud and threatening. It was not a welcoming bark. It was an
If you come any closer, I'm going to eat your face
bark.

I opened the door and Doomsday ran down the steps. I lost sight of him at the first landing, but heard him charging toward the garage like a big wild beast with a scent of its prey. My feet carried me as fast as they could without tripping. I called after him, telling him to wait, to hold up until I could catch up, but he was already too far ahead, and my calls echoed uselessly off the walls of the stairwell. I didn't know who was in more danger: Doomsday, or whoever he found at the bottom of the stairs. It seemed certain that any kind of attack would be over before I got there. But when I reached the garage my dog was standing at the door to the main entrance, alone and growling.

I came up beside him and looked outside. The street was deserted. We missed him. But only just. We climbed the stairs back to my loft. There, I found a note hanging on the door. I had been in such a rush to follow Doomsday that I had missed it. It was printed on a generic page of computer paper. Twenty-point font. Times New Roman. As generic and untraceable as it got.

MURRAY BAKER BRIDGE VIADUCT, MIDNIGHT

COME
ALONE

For a writer of cheesy pulp novels like myself, the note was an obvious trap. There is only one reason a person wishes to meet alone in the middle of the night, and that is to kill the recipient. The note may as well have included a postscript that stated, “I'm setting a trap and betting you are stupid enough to walk right into it.” The smart thing to do would be to call the detectives and have them back me up. But the idea of calling either Torrez or Jagger was unacceptable. Torrez would just swear at me and act like I had contrived the entire thing just to piss him off. Jagger would likely stare at me like a load of crap that somehow developed the ability to speak. Both would show up with half the police force, possibly a helicopter, and would manage to do nothing but spook whoever was reaching out and make certain that they did not make another attempt.

So I stuck to the terms. Mostly. Riding on the passenger seat was my shotgun. For the hell of it, I also brought a fire extinguisher. Just in case. I had considered bringing Doomsday, but decided against it. He would charge too easily into trouble if he believed I was threatened. I didn't want to put him in that situation and left him chewing on his new softball.

I had no idea what to expect, so I was ready for anything.

Or so I thought.

A form was slumped in the shadows. I killed the headlights and rolled toward it. Twenty yards away, I flipped on the high beams. The man was of indeterminate age with dirty long hair and a beard, a hand raised in front of his face to shield his eyes. I slowly pulled alongside him and rolled down my window.

“You Sands?” His voice was like broken glass being dragged over gravel.

“Yeah.”

“You look like him.”

“That's because I am him.”

“No, you look like the other guy who was here earlier. The one that was looking for you.”

“Who was looking for me?

The bum looked around. “How much?”

My wallet held two tens. I took them out and held them up for him to see. His hand came out like an expectant bellhop wanting a tip. I left the car and walked over to him. The money exchanged hands and he tucked it in his coat. His eyes rolled up in his head as though deep in thought.

“There was a man here waitin.' Was leaning against an old Camaro. Cream-colored. Dented fenders. Real piece of crap. Late seventies era, maybe.”

“Okay.”

“Well, he was waiting,' like I said. Seemed real anxious. Kept looking at his watch.”

“This guy didn't see you sitting here?”

“He saw me, alright. Just didn't seem to care that I was here. Folks like me tend to blend into the background. Ya know? Anyway, this guy suddenly got real spooked when a police car drove past. Didn't like the sight of them one bit. They come by here now and again. They rousted me a few times. Some of them are pretty rough about it.”

“Why don't you go someplace else?”

“Like where?”

“One of the missions?”

“I've done been kicked out of all those. You wanna know what I have to tell you or not?”

I held up my hands up in surrender, signaling for him to go on.

“Well, after the third time the police car drove by, he got in that Camaro. He drove by me, then backed up. He rolled his window down and leaned out. Said you would be by here and to give you a message.”

“What was the message?”

“He said payback is coming. After all these years. Payback was finally coming for you.”

“What did he look like?” I asked, hoping that he could provide a description as good as the car.

“I can tell ya, but he gave me his name if you want it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess. He said his name was the River City Slasher?”

“No, smart guy. He said his name was Eli Sandborn. He said to tell ya that hell has come to town to find you.”

Chapter Ten

Calamity Ranch, Montana. October 1992.

Fall in Montana. Fifty degrees in the afternoon with a chill in the air that called for well-worn denim jeans and flannel coats. The mountains rose high over the plains, reminding of us of how small we were. The lake was still as glass. On the dock, our canoe was put up for the day, oars tucked safely inside like workers punched out for their shift.

Eli held a stringer with over a dozen good-sized trout. A few of them were even mine. Eli was two years younger than me, tall and wiry. Long hair and wild eyes. Good with a rifle as far as you cared to test him. My younger brother, a better hunter, better fisherman, had taken all of my lessons on these things and improved until he left me in the dust.

“I'll take these to the house,” he said. “Father told me this morning that he wanted to talk to you when we were finished.” Eli always addressed Peter like that.
Father
. Never Dad or Pops or the Old Man. Father. It was how everyone who lived on our ranch addressed him. Even our mother.

“He in the main house?”

“Nah.” Eli flashed me a grin that was full of mischief, letting me know that he knew something I didn't, and wouldn't I love to know what it was. “He's in your favorite place.”

I groaned, dreading having to go to Peter's chapel. It was the one place on the ranch I avoided whenever possible.

“Did he happen to say what he wanted?”